Awful life memories can still have funny (to me) moments
We can skip the part where he beat me up. I had to get out for the night, and I was taking the dog with me.
Jasper was a mountain cur mix, but to me he just looked like a german shepard with short hair. My boyfriend and I adopted him on a whim during an impromptu trip to Ikea. There was a pet adoption set up in front of the store, and some kids were reaching over the pen and poking Jasper like they were checking to see if he was dead. He just sat there panting and staring.
We didn’t stand around long to watch. It was 100 degrees out, a typical Texas summer day, so we quickly went inside, bought some furniture on a credit card, and left. On the drive home we talked about Jasper’s demeanor, which became a debate about getting a dog, which slid into us convincing each other that not only would it be ok to get a dog that very moment, it would be a tragedy not to. We drove back and paid the adoption agency $150 as proof that we could responsibly welcome Jasper into our loving home.
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The alcohol was past the point of giving my boyfriend excessive energy and instead was sapping him of everything. I quietly packed an overnight bag with dog food and a change of clothes, and Jasper and I were off.
By midnight we were hunkered down in my car in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I was furiously refreshing the internet on my Metro PCS, no-name Android while the battery was getting dangerously low, desperately trying to find a motel nearby that accepted dogs. Jasper sat up dutifully in the front passenger seat, never once lying down.
We eventually got to a motel. The sliding doors parted and the air curtain roared. I walked inside and felt my right shoulder try to pop out of its socket while my hand was forced towards the floor.
I spun around, slightly hunched over, one arm stretched out while the other tried to adjust my slipping backpack straps, but I stopped when I saw my dog’s stoic face. That’s when I remembered that Jasper was inexplicably, deathly afraid of linoleum floors. He wouldn’t even go in the kitchen, no matter what kind of food we tempted him with.
Still hunched over, with my backpack now half slung off of my body, I weakly tugged the leash two times “pretty please?” to coax him inside.
Jasper, sitting partially outside and partially on the motel floor mat, didn’t budge. He looked as close to tears as a dog can get.
The sliding door’s wind and fury were getting impatient. I crouched down and reached my arms around Jasper, who didn’t resist being picked up but didn’t do anything ergonomically to help either.
I didn’t know what the night auditor guy behind the bulletproof window thought of all of this and I didn’t care. I had to focus on opening my backpack to get my wallet out while my German Shepherd-esque dog did everything in his power to not lose The Floor is Lava.
That was 15 years ago. I’ve long been out of that relationship and into plenty of therapy. This is just a draft, and I don’t know how to explain why that moment’s so funny to me yet, but here it is for now.