Read Online Giant George by Dave Nasser and Lynne Barrett-Lee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dave Nasser and Lynne Barrett-Lee
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the epicenter of an earthquake or something. I’m honestly not sure if I’m watchinga movie or on my very own personally tailored amusement park ride!”
She reached for a tissue and dabbed at her cheek. “Which really does kind of spoil the moment, you know?”
I looked at the TV, where the “moment” was still in full flow—well, as much as these kinds of moments can be said to “flow.” While George continued to loosen all the nuts in our bed frame, Mr. Darcy or whoever (they alllooked the same tome) was staring moodily out of the television screen, saying precisely nothing whatsoever. But then he didn’t really need to say anything, did he? He just looked so completely
un
amused.
It wasn’t only the vibrating bed that was a problem, or George’s endless attachment to straddling chair legs; George had morphed into this huge, manic, permanently excitable animal, who, givenhis massive size, was now potentially a hazard to smaller animals, whether he intended to be or not. His intentions may at all times have been both amicable and amorous, but he was one big old boy to have coming in your direction when his libido was active.
It made people squirm. With spectacularly bad timing, we first really became aware of this when my family was over for dinner one night.We’d just finished, and had moved into the living room, where my parents had settled down on one of the couches. George, who always liked to be right in the thick of it, had made himself comfortable on the other with Christie, sitting beside her in the way that he usually did—haunches on the couch, front paws on the floor.
I’d been into the kitchen to brew up some coffee, and when I rejoinedthem, the first thing I saw was his “lipstick,” as we’d recently taken to calling it, at “full volume.” I went and sat beside my parents, where the view was even more arresting. Christie, of course, was oblivious. But if there’s one thing you don’t want to share with your folks, it’s anything to do with
that
sort of thing. I also felt for them—they must have been mortified. George was a big dog,so it was completely unmissable. And they were respectable folks in their late sixties.
Conscious it was becoming a real conversation stopper, I stood up again. “Hey, Georgie,” I said, “you want a treat?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Christie came back at me, as quick as you like. “He’s already pinched way too many scraps for one day.” She clamped an arm around him. “No treats for you.”
I sat down again,and willed it to disappear, which it showed absolutely no sign of doing. I then tried doing things with my eyes to alert Christie, but she looked at me as if I were mad.
I was just about to overrule her and take him to the kitchen, when my dad said, “You getting that dog fixed, Dave? Seems like he’s only got one thing on his mind.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I said, as Christie suddenly became fully awareof the situation too.
“No worries.” My dad chuckled. “We’ve all been there.”
Happily, George was closing on the nine months of age that Doc Wallace had told us was the earliest he could fix him. Less happily, though the gastropexy was obviously important for his health and needed to be done, I felt like I was betraying George by secretly plotting to take away his manhood.
We had, for a shorttime, considered breeding George. As a pure blue, with not so much as a single hair of white on him, he was a potentially brilliant asset to the gene pool. Before getting him, we’d been to a dog show, out of curiosity, which was held in the courtyard of a hotel in town. It was specifically for Great Danes and had been put on by a local Great Dane Club, with owners traveling long distances from severalneighboring citiesand states to be there and show their animals. We were surprised by the variety of fur colors of these Danes and had marveled at the amount of commitment and energy, not to mention organization, that it seemed to take to show
She reached for a tissue and dabbed at her cheek. “Which really does kind of spoil the moment, you know?”
I looked at the TV, where the “moment” was still in full flow—well, as much as these kinds of moments can be said to “flow.” While George continued to loosen all the nuts in our bed frame, Mr. Darcy or whoever (they alllooked the same tome) was staring moodily out of the television screen, saying precisely nothing whatsoever. But then he didn’t really need to say anything, did he? He just looked so completely
un
amused.
It wasn’t only the vibrating bed that was a problem, or George’s endless attachment to straddling chair legs; George had morphed into this huge, manic, permanently excitable animal, who, givenhis massive size, was now potentially a hazard to smaller animals, whether he intended to be or not. His intentions may at all times have been both amicable and amorous, but he was one big old boy to have coming in your direction when his libido was active.
It made people squirm. With spectacularly bad timing, we first really became aware of this when my family was over for dinner one night.We’d just finished, and had moved into the living room, where my parents had settled down on one of the couches. George, who always liked to be right in the thick of it, had made himself comfortable on the other with Christie, sitting beside her in the way that he usually did—haunches on the couch, front paws on the floor.
I’d been into the kitchen to brew up some coffee, and when I rejoinedthem, the first thing I saw was his “lipstick,” as we’d recently taken to calling it, at “full volume.” I went and sat beside my parents, where the view was even more arresting. Christie, of course, was oblivious. But if there’s one thing you don’t want to share with your folks, it’s anything to do with
that
sort of thing. I also felt for them—they must have been mortified. George was a big dog,so it was completely unmissable. And they were respectable folks in their late sixties.
Conscious it was becoming a real conversation stopper, I stood up again. “Hey, Georgie,” I said, “you want a treat?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Christie came back at me, as quick as you like. “He’s already pinched way too many scraps for one day.” She clamped an arm around him. “No treats for you.”
I sat down again,and willed it to disappear, which it showed absolutely no sign of doing. I then tried doing things with my eyes to alert Christie, but she looked at me as if I were mad.
I was just about to overrule her and take him to the kitchen, when my dad said, “You getting that dog fixed, Dave? Seems like he’s only got one thing on his mind.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I said, as Christie suddenly became fully awareof the situation too.
“No worries.” My dad chuckled. “We’ve all been there.”
Happily, George was closing on the nine months of age that Doc Wallace had told us was the earliest he could fix him. Less happily, though the gastropexy was obviously important for his health and needed to be done, I felt like I was betraying George by secretly plotting to take away his manhood.
We had, for a shorttime, considered breeding George. As a pure blue, with not so much as a single hair of white on him, he was a potentially brilliant asset to the gene pool. Before getting him, we’d been to a dog show, out of curiosity, which was held in the courtyard of a hotel in town. It was specifically for Great Danes and had been put on by a local Great Dane Club, with owners traveling long distances from severalneighboring citiesand states to be there and show their animals. We were surprised by the variety of fur colors of these Danes and had marveled at the amount of commitment and energy, not to mention organization, that it seemed to take to show
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