In an effort to ease his car anxiety, I took Skid with me whenever it was safe, not too warm outside and with no stops where I'd have to leave him alone in the car. Sometimes we visited Skid-welcoming destinations. We stopped at fast-food drive throughs and ordered child-sized burgers or hotdogs; "hold everything but the meat."
Before Skid learned that all sorts of sounds came out of our mouths, it was fun to whistle, chirp, fuss, and make other small-prey noises. Sometimes we even fooled him, and laughed when we made him look. Or maybe he was just humoring us.
Once, while Skid was still small and very thin, we drove to The Doghouse in Hillsborough. I turned off the car to wait for our hotdogs, so Skid was on the passenger seat, exploring.
He barked at the car behind us. He growled at the activity he could see inside the hotdog hut through the window. To distract him, I sucked air through my teeth, sounding like an angry squirrel chatter-fussing.
That got his attention
He stilled and focussed on my face, his ears cocked well forward. I chattered again. He leaned in, ears straining. I giggled, then, fussed. He sniffed all around me, circling closer with every pass. I giggled harder as he shoved his nose under my hair and sniffed, then under my arms and on my other side, but I finally was able to control my mouth enough to fuss-chatter again.
Skid stood back and his eyes got big and round and dark. He stared at my mouth, every whisker, every sense straining forward. Around my giggles, I got out one more fuss-chatter before surrendering to full-throated laughter.
That was the opening he needed; he stuck his nose right in my mouth!
I spat and laughed and laughed and spat until my sides hurt and my mouth was dry.
Surely the drive-through server thought I was off my rocker.
The hotdogs were good, though. The sweet iced tea was great!>>
The only other time I remember tasting wet, slightly slimy dog nose was when I was about seven years old.
My first dog, a St. Bernard, and my Shetland pony, who taught me how to stick on a horse, played a game that I called predators and prey. In a word, they took turns chasing each other around the yard.
When I was with them and wanted to play a different game, or felt that they were getting too rough with each other, I would put a stop to it.
Once, during a particularly ferocious game, the pony ran into his stall — a converted garden house cum shed cum playhouse with a normal house-sized door — the Saint hot on his tail.
Without thinking I straddled the doorway, hands braced on either side, and bit the dog on the part coming right at my face — his nose.
I'll always remember the disbelief on Hector's face as he skidded to a stop and sneezed and sneezed. I'll always remember his lightly salty, slightly slimy, vaguely rough nose in my mouth.
He forgave me.
He was a good dog, too.
