“Life's a journey, not a destination" - Aerosmith.
In this case, the destination was my new puppy, Homer. And the journey? A 24-hour road trip across the island and back with my mother and sister; my sister would also be getting a puppy: Homer’s brother, Fergus.
Mom pulled into my driveway at 6 a.m., looking bright and peppy. I looked like a blobfish in sweatpants wearing an unkempt hairpiece. I was alone in my hankering for a dirty breakfast sandy and a dirtier coffee. Mom had been up for three hours, hiked a mountain, meditated, taught a yoga class, and received an honorary doctorate for her community involvement; she had already eaten a well-rounded breakfast and washed it down with a cup of green tea (green tea: for when you’re detoxing and/or crave the rotting leaf water that accumulates in your rain spout!).
My sister climbed in last, armed with a few gossip magazines and her container of dry kamut flakes with chia and flax seeds and a side of oat milk. The drive-thru would be for me alone.
Once we arrived in the booming metropolis of St. John’s, we had several hours to kill before the puppies’ flight arrival. And the ladies had plans. Yes, I say “the ladies” because, honestly, my day away from work and parenting was winning enough; perhaps a glass of wine in my face and something delicious to eat, if there was time.
But my shopaholic kin were on a mission.
Mission: shopping
“Plenty of time for Costco,” mom announced.
Have I mentioned my paralyzing shopping anxiety?
Long story short: my husband, the banker, has always been meticulously careful with money. I, on the other hand, was the kid in university who saw “student loan” as “free cash.” I would buy rounds of shots for a room full of strangers because it was possible. I’d buy a new coat because I felt slightly chilled and the salesperson was cute.
Then I met my husband, already a Calgary homeowner at age 24 (I was living in some lady’s basement when we met and using a giant Rubbermaid container as my coffee/dining table). I suddenly felt a giant mirror being held up to my every purchase (thankfully, it was just a metaphorical mirror as my goatee of hormonal acne was particularly aggressive in 2011).
J wasn’t intentionally forcing his responsible spending on me but, a lifelong people-pleaser and compulsive bandwagon jumper, I needed to accede to his financial prowess. So, it’s his fault (but not) that a $1.79 pack of gum nowadays leaves me shaking my head as I leave a store empty-handed, still smelling like cumin.
So, we went to Costco. I spent most of my time touching soft things and staring longingly at the Christmas decorations before leaving with a two-pack of hummus and tested-but-intact convictions on frugality.
The next stop was on my sister’s list: an adorable little boutique shop downtown with handmade greeting cards and hippie-chic decor. There’s nothing an anxious spender likes more than a shop that provides fun gadgets like a hand-painted spin top for $15.99 or a whimsical fridge magnet for $24.99. I love my kids, but the artisanal edition of Snakes and Ladders for half the cost of groceries will have to wait.
Next up was an equally fancy boutique shop for animals. I felt a greater sense of obligation here, given my fur baby was, at that moment, terrified and cold and clanging around with the luggage, 30,000 feet in the air. Unfortunately, the good-ol’ 1980s, where “spoiling your dog” meant milk bones and toast crusts are long gone; in 2020, you remortgage your house and give that angelic pooch that bag of organic, free-range, touched-by-God unicorn meat he/she deserves.
The dehydrated ears and hooves whetted the ol’ appetite because suddenly, we were famished. My sister suggested sandwiches at the mall’s food court to allow more time for shopping (oh God, there’s more?). Mom suggested Indian food.
Indian food got my vote. As I allow myself to eat at restaurants only on the blue moon of every twelfth leap year, I was OK with the notion of splurging a little. Scented candles and mannequins with waists the size of my forearm could wait.
What we hadn’t considered is my sister’s “willingness to try” but “complete lack of spice tolerance.” We watched, painfully, as she sweated her way through her mild dish, extinguishing her face after each micro-bite with generous gulps of mango lassi. Did we feel bad we had strong-armed her into a spicy meal instead of a previously-frozen but safe food court dish? Sure. Did we head straight to the mall after? No dice. It was closed.
She was devastated. We tried to make it up to her by going to her favourite coffee shop to sit at a dirty table strewn with pastry crumbs and sip $8.99 mea culpa coffees in relative silence until, at last, it was time to head to the airport.
The newest additions
This column has made it abundantly clear my anxiety is like the guy who pops over for small-talk, right when the youngsters are fighting, you’re behind on paperwork, you’re sleep-deprived and you’ve lost your keys. His timing is terrible, but usually makes for a good story in hindsight. Let’s call him Randall.
Randall showed up as we arrived at the airport. For the first time, I felt the reality of my newest dependent’s imminent arrival. I only hyperventilated in front of the airport security guy for a moment; I left the best of it for crying my way back to the car, as we were redirected three blocks away to the cargo building.
I’m not sure what I was picturing when I heard “cargo”; perhaps a brightly-lit, mini-airport full of puppies and giant, wrapped Christmas parcels. Not the deserted, cold, dimly lit, Dexter kill-lab we found.
After about an hour of nagging WestJet on the phone, banging on random windows and locked doors for a sign of any human presence in this abandoned warehouse, and weighing myself on the cargo scale, we finally heard that long-awaited sound: the hum of a large garage door opening, followed by the rumbling of wheels and the whimpering of pups.
Just like that, they were here.
And so was Randall.
“Be calm, be chill. They feed off your energy,” I reminded myself out loud, placing my hands on my hips and willing my face to relax and convey tranquility. I looked less like a Zen master and more like a constipated aye-aye in the throes of a cerebrovascular accident.
A worker cut the zip ties and opened the kennel door. And there they were: two of the fattest, sweetest, and most terrified-looking puppies I’d ever seen.
We whisked them outside to the freezing, horizontal sleet that is classic, late-October St. John’s, where they were greeted by infinite wet pavement, gale-force winds, and total darkness. Which is exactly what traumatized puppies need to feel at home. I blindly chased what I hoped was my jet-black puppy through a black hole and found him cowering by a guardrail.
Mom sat in the driver’s seat. Now, mom is a beast in only the best ways. But she has her own way of expressing herself in stressful situations. That night, as our driver - my sister and I all but nursing our puppies in the backseat to ease their PTSD - mom forgot how to drive. With the wipers cranked to Defcon 2 and my pulse belying my off-putting “calm” face and mannish whispers, Mom turned left on her first attempt at the roundabout and repeated, oddly calm, that “we’re out of gas, we’re not gonna make it.”
We somehow made it back to the rental and, after about a dozen semi-successful attempts to stand in the freezing rain, begging the puppies to pee, my sister and I barricaded them in our shared room with us and enjoyed a solid one to two hours of sleep, accented by puppy whines and the distinct smell of feces.
Heading home
The next morning, we decided to hit the road home early. Still buzzing with adrenaline and panic and now sleep-deprivation, we sat the pups in the backseat with us for the first chunk of the journey while Mom drove. We were about two hours in when my sister’s dog began vomiting. My dog hungrily devoured it in its copious entirety before - bewildered and dry heaving - I could pull him away. My new-mom brain zinging, all I could think was, “do I include the barf in his daily food allowance for today?”
Have you ever been so tired you felt like everything was a dream? And at one point, you reach into a bag of leftover Indian food (also containing exploded Costco hummus) and reflexively lick the wet substance off your finger, only to then question whether or not that was indeed the hummus or the dog vomit?
Same.
We were forced to stop into a local Dollarama to purchase clean-up supplies. And yes, my discombobulating spending anxiety also joins me in dollar stores. Plus, I was still buzzing from all the new puppyness and vomit.
Staring, wild-eyed, at no-name disinfectant cleaners for a good four-and-a-half minutes, I could not bring myself to make a choice.
“Do we want cherry almond or cranberry pomegranate?” I asked.
“You’re joking, right?” my sister replied.
“You’re right. Dogs are probably allergic to almonds. Let’s go with the cran-pom.”
My sister walked away, obviously impressed by my fastidious problem-solving.
Her puppy continued to spew his distaste for highway travel. What began as an honest effort to clean the mess in the car quickly evolved into simply placing yet another Dollarama towel over the newest mound. Which made for a really fresh and aromatic six hours of travel.
I can say with 100 per cent certainty that my family was “just whelmed” by the surprise puppy. I was the dog person, after all. I was the one who wanted this. He is very much my dog. But he is very much melting his way into the hearts of the other boys in my life.
And each time I look at him, I recall that God-awful road trip and hope we can do it again.
Heather Huybregts is a mother, physiotherapist, blogger (heatheronarock.com), YouTuber and puffin whisperer from Corner Brook, NL.
