Читать книгу Marley: A Dog Like No Other - John Grogan - Страница 6
ОглавлениеWhen it was time to bring the dog home, Jenny was at Disney World with her sister’s family, so I picked him up by myself.
Lori brought out my new dog from the back of the house. I gasped. The tiny, fuzzy puppy we had picked out three weeks earlier had more than doubled in size. He came barrelling at me and ran head first into my ankles. He collapsed in a pile at my feet and rolled on to his back with his paws in the air. I hoped it was his way of telling me I was the boss.
Lori must have sensed my shock. “He’s a growing boy, isn’t he?” she said cheerily. “You should see him pack away the puppy chow!”
I leaned down and rubbed his belly. “Ready to go home, Marley?” I asked. That’s what Jenny and I had decided to name him – after Bob Marley, our favourite reggae musician. It felt right.
I used beach towels to make a cosy nest for him on the passenger seat of the car. I set him down in it. But I was barely out of the driveway when he began squirming and wiggling his way out of the towels. He belly-crawled in my direction across the seat, whimpering.
Between the seats, Marley ran into a problem. There he was, hind legs hanging over the passenger and front legs hanging over the driver’s side. In the middle, his stomach was firmly beached on the hand brake. His little legs were going in all directions, clawing at the air. He wiggled and rocked and swayed, but he was grounded like a freighter on a sandbar.
I reached over and ran my hand down his back. That made him squiggle even more. His hind paws desperately tried to dig into the carpeted hump between the two seats. Slowly he began working his hindquarters into the air, his butt rising up, up, until the law of gravity finally kicked in. He slid head-first down the other side of the console, somersaulting on to the floor at my feet and flipping onto his back. From there he easily scrambled up into my lap.
Man, was he happy – desperately happy! He quaked with joy as he burrowed his head into my stomach and nibbled the buttons of my shirt. His tail slapped a steady beat on the steering wheel.
I found I could change the tempo of his wagging by touching him. When I had both hands on the wheel, his tail beat three thumps per second. Thump. Thump. Thump. If I pressed one finger against the top of his head, the rhythm jumped from a slow waltz to a lively bossa nova. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump! Two fingers and it jumped up to a mambo. Thump-thumpa-thump- thump-thumpa-thump! And when I cupped my entire hand over his head and massaged my fingers into his scalp, the beat exploded into a machine-gun, rapid-fire samba. Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump!
“Wow! You’ve got rhythm!” I told him. “You really are a reggae dog.”
When we got home, I led him inside and unhooked his leash. He began sniffing and didn’t stop until he had sniffed every square inch of the place. Then he sat back and looked up at me with his head cocked as if he were saying, “Cool house, but where are my brothers and sisters?”
The reality of his new life didn’t really hit him until bedtime. I had set up his sleeping quarters in the one- car garage attached to the side of the house. The room was dry and comfortable, and it had a rear door that led out into the fenced backyard. With its concrete floor and walls, it was virtually indestructible. “Marley,” I said cheerfully, leading him out there, “this is your room.”
I had scattered chew toys around, laid newspapers down in the middle of the floor, filled a bowl with water, and made a bed out of a cardboard box lined with an old bedspread.
“And here is where you’ll be sleeping,” I said, and lowered him into the box. He was used to sleeping in a box, but had always shared it with his siblings. Now he paced the perimeter of the box and sadly looked up at me. As a test, I stepped back into the house and closed the door. I stood and listened. At first nothing. Then a slight, barely audible whimper. And then full-fledged crying. It sounded like someone was in there torturing him.
I opened the door, and as soon as he saw me he stopped. I reached in and petted him for a couple of minutes. Then I left again. Standing on the other side of the door, I began to count. One, two, three… he made it seven seconds before the yips and cries began again. We repeated the exercise several times. Each time it was the same.
I was tired and decided it was time for him to cry himself to sleep. I left the garage light on for him, closed the door, walked to the opposite side of the house, and crawled into bed. The concrete walls didn’t muffle his pitiful cries. I lay there, trying to ignore them. I figured he would give up any minute and go to sleep.
The crying continued. Even after I wrapped my pillow around my head, I could still hear it. Poor Marley. Out there alone for the first time in his life. His mother was missing in action, and so were all his brothers and sisters. There wasn’t even a single dog smell.
I hung on for another half hour before getting up and going to him. As soon as he spotted me, his face brightened and his tail began to beat the side of the box. It was as if he were saying, “Come on. Hop in. There’s plenty of room.”
Instead I lifted the box with him in it and carried it into my bedroom. I placed it on the floor against the side of the bed. I lay down on the very edge of the mattress, my arm dangling into the box. There, my hand resting on his side where I could feel his rib cage rise and fall with his every breath, we both drifted off to sleep.
