The Chronicles of Zoe Dog

205. Dog on the Run

(With apologies to Jack Kerouac)

Yesterday I was scratching my butt and thinkin' maybe it's time for a road trip. That ain't to say I'm dissatisfied with where I am. I get three square meals a day. By the way, just what is a square meal? I know it's good, but is it better than a round meal? A triangular meal? I also get a soft bed to sleep in, and I have no household responsibilities except to lick up food dropped on the kitchen floor.

But sometimes there's an itch a dog can't scratch. I ain't been on the road for years, but I'm thinkin' maybe it's time. I know about all the good things I might lose if I can't get back. But sometimes you gotta risk it all.

I didn't take no map or kibble. All I had was a red bandana around my neck. I just hit the road and hitchhiked whenever I could. I met lots of folks on the road. Some were memorable, others were just a way to catch a ride. It don't matter none.

I landed in New Orleans and stayed there for awhile. Very nice place except for the humidity and rain. I was hungry, so I went into an oyster shucking warehouse. There were long tables with barrels of oysters where the shuckers worked. They stood on their feet all day shucking oysters with a glove and a shucking knife. Some were barefoot. Not a good life if you ask me. There were enough discarded shells with enough meat on 'em to keep me goin'.

From there I went down to Bourbon Street where I saw a sign for Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo. I went in. Mostly it was tourist shit—voodoo dolls, fake shrunken heads, rabbits' feet, masks, and such. But there was a back room with a curtain covering the door. I went in. I saw a little woman with a wizened hand.

I inquired, "Are you Madam Laveau?"

"Hell no!" she shouted. "There ain't no Madam Laveau. That's just to get the tourists to come in."

"Then who are you?" I asked.

"I'm Olga Bladderwort. I'm from Belarus and I'm a mess. I ain't never been to a dentist, I get bladder infections all the time, I got no education, and I got this worthless hand. Best I can do is sell shit in a voodoo shop. Shop don't take in much money. Barely enough to give me room and board."

"Sorry to hear about that," I said. "What's up with that shriveled hand, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"Birth defect," she replied. "What's it to you?"

"Just curious," I said. "I guess in a poker game you always have a bad hand. Get it? I'm just tryin' to create some levitude. I guess you don't have much confidence in yourself. I bet you could do better than workin' here if you set your mind to it. Us dogs start over each day; so can you."

I all of a sudden felt preachy. "I am dog. You are dog. Go forward starting today as a new dog, er, I mean as a new day. Time for me to go. You can stay or go. It's up to you. It don't matter none."

I had enough of New Orleans, so I started hitchhiking again. I wound up in the back of a pickup truck headed for Waco, Texas. Once I got there, I remembered that this was the place where that crazy motherfucker David Koresh and his Branch Dravidians fought it out with the ATF. The ATF turned him into Mr. Crispy. He was a child sexual predator so I figure he got what he deserved.

I thought to myself, this ain't no place for a Dog fearin' dog to be. I'll get something to eat and then get out of Dodge, er, I mean Waco.

I went to the back of a downtown restaurant and found something to eat in the garbage bin. A drunk guy came up to me as I was eating.

"Hey dog," he slurred. "This is my territory, so get the hell out of here."

I snarled. He left.

My next stop was L.A. Jack Kerouac said that "L.A. is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities." He may have been right. First of all it's very difficult to get around in that city unless you have a car, which I don't. And even if I did, I would have no way to drive it since I only have paws. It's also totally urban, except for a few parks. There's hardly anywhere for a dog to rest, sleep, or poop.

I saw so many people on the streets and sidewalks walking so fast like there's somewhere important for them to get to, not aware of one another, not taking the time to see what's really going on. I saw men in suits carrying leather briefcases, women in high heels wearing designer dresses and purses, and couriers rushing to deliver high priority packages to corporate offices.

After a lot of missteps because of the overwhelming size of the city, I wound up in the Wholesale District—Skid Row. It's got a lot of prostitution, dope dealing, panhandlers and street gangs. I don't usually have any problems with these folks. You see, I'm a dog. I gots no money, no need for dope, and I'm no threat to gangs' turf. Some of these folks even like me. I guess it gives them respite from all of the violence and shit they deal with every day. To get around I had to jump over lots of passed-out drunks sleeping on the sidewalks. I eventually wandered over to San Pedro Street—it's notorious. I figured if I could say I'd been to San Pedro Street, I'd have braggin' rights back home:

"Hey bro, you ever been to San Pedro Street in L.A.?"

"No."

"Well, I have. Let me tell you, it's bad-ass. I once went into a bar where a one-armed pole dancer and two drunk waiters got into a fight. It spilled out into the alley. I ran out to join into the fray. There was blood and a brusin' all over the place. I tell you what. That dancer could really land a punch. No tellin' what she could uh done if she had two arms. Wow! What a rush!"

I left L.A. and bummed a ride to La Jolla. What a snit-picky town it is. There were lots of rich folks doing high end shopping, tanning on the beach, and driving around in fancy cars. No one even would give me the time of day, not that I ever needed to know the time of day. I went down to Windansea Beach to look around. It was lined with beach umbrellas, sand chairs, and corpulent beach goers in their speedos and bikinis slathering on sun screen while drinking waiter-provided martinis. Jeez! When these human beach balls enter the water, if there are any great whites in the vicinity, they will high-tail it for deeper waters.

A cop spotted me gettin' ready to take a dump. He said, "If you shit on the beach, I'll beat you with my night stick and lock you up for six months. I held it in until he left, then I found a suitable bush where I took care of business. I told myself, "This town ain't for me."

I started thinkin', "Is it just me, or is America lookin' pretty shabby nowadays?"

I headed north in the back of a truck full of freshly dug up onions. The smell was too intense, but the Mexican guys in the truck were nice. One of them gave me a taco. Yum! It was the best food I'd had since I left home. I've always liked Mexicans, except for the gangsters. Most Mexicans are down-to-earth people, hard working, and happy. I wish more Americans were like Mexicans.

I got up to Bakersfield where I decided I had enough of wandering outback, so I jumped into an open freight train car as it was leaving the station. There were several bums inside. They looked at me suspiciously.

I said, "Not to worry. I ain't no police dog and I ain't interested in taking any of your stuff. By the way, where are we heading?"

One replied, "Flagstaff."

"Excellent!" I said.

There's something about riding in a train that is soothing. It's that clackity clack sound and the vibration it makes. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until the train stopped at the Flagstaff station. From there I trotted home. I don't think I'll need another road trip for quite some time, but maybe I'll write a story about it.