Why did we hire a CCO or The Dog Days of Greybull Travel

Hi again, all you wild and crazy blog fans.  Glad you’ve decided to torture yourself with another of my fantastic blog posts.  They are so popular and entertaining that both of you readers are here at gunpoint, I am sure.

Just a bit about the blog before we get into today’s fun.  This is a travel agent’s blog.  And I have this curious need to eat on a semi-regular basis so I have to make it about travel.  Some of you, however, remember the sad passing of my former blog on WordPress, Springer Rage,  and missed the humor there.  This blog will alternate between travel and humor, and today is humor.

We decided, rightly or wrongly, when we became travel agents to be dog friendly.  Translation:  Our dog can’t hold his bladder for 10 hours, so we need to take him to work.  Well, since we have to work, so should he.  It’s ony fair. He ‘s our CCO, or Cute Canine Officer.  This was a great idea.  Hey, people love cute and cuddly, and Remus is cute and cuddly, well, cute, ok, he’s not ugly.  And sleeps. . .a lot.  Like when the vet tells you to keep him calm, you look at the vet and ask him if Remus is supposed to sleep 25 hours a day.  Remus’ get up and go has gotten up, and like Elvis, left the building.  This should work out fine, right?  Cue chaos!

Our idea was Remus would come into work with us at 9, sleep quietly in the corner on his third dog bed (one for the house, one for the back seat of the car, and one for the agency, and he’s not spoiled), and come home after work and go back to sleep.  His idea was go to work, stay five minutes and go home.  I understand this feeling.  I don’t mind going to work.  It’s that dang 10 hour wait to go home that gets me.  We gave into him, having Rick chauffeur him home, and go home every four hours to help let him out.  Once again, I reiterate that Remus is not spoiled. . . MUCH.

To prove he isn’t spoiled, I’ll offer up how much he suffers.  He only gets his pills on a plastic knife covered with peanut butter.  Afterwards, he is forced to lick remains of said peanut butter off the knife.  See how horribly abused he is.  I have also slept on the couch on numerous nights because he was taking up so much of the bed that there wasn’t room for me on it.  See, I told you he wasn’t spoiled, but you didn’t believe me, did you?

Anyway, back to our CCO’s work day. . .or lack thereof.  He did this for the first week we were open.  Halfway through week two, I put my foot down.  He has to come in and he has to stay.  So, on Wednesday, we arise at the crack of 8 am (which I firmly believe is the middle of the night) and tell Remus we are going to go “Workies”.  Sort of sounds like “walkies”, doesn’t it?  So, he’s all chipper, jumping and and weaving through the living room, destroying furniture and causing your faithful blog poster to nearly hit the ground.  Wait, the dog’s doing this?

Yes, dear reader, Remus is.  Remus is a bit on the hefty side. On the weight chart he falls somewhere between Extra Large and OH-MY-GOD, closer to the latter than the former.  He is the only thing in the universe with a gravity well larger than that of the black hole at the center of the galaxy.  Small, no large, planets orbit his rear end.

I am bit on the hefty side myself, so I can commiserate with him.  He just isn’t very graceful.  Those earthquakes this past summer in Yellowstone National Park?  The number of them is equal to the number of times Remus laid down with a hefty thump in the camper, shaking it and the ground for thousands of miles around.  This means when Remus gets excited I fear that our house will come down around us, especially when he’s playing.

Why is that? Our dog is weird.  He rubs up against things when he’s playing.  Walls, cars, fences, your leg.  You get the picture.  Now you see why I was falling down.

Back to Remus’ first full day at work.  He arrived at 8:40 and immediately, like every good American, decided WORK SUCKS.  He whined, panted, paced, and generally made life miserable for our agency. I held firm!  You’re not going anywhere, Remus, until we close at 5.  We have two doors in the agency, one that leads to freedom (the outside) and one that leads somewhere else.  That second door leads to the laundromat.  Laundromat?  Yes, dear reader, we are in a laundromat.  We’ll what used to be the full-service side of it.

After several gallons of beverage, sadly, the non-alcoholic kind as Remus will drive you to drink, I have to use the “facilities”.  The “facilities” are located in the laundromat side, so I open the door, vowing that Remus would not escape to the laundry-side (like the dark side without the cookies).  I sneak through the partially open door, swearing a blood oath to keep him on our side.  Of course I succeeded.  He followed me into the laundromat.  Thankfully, I was able to get the door closed before he got into the “facilities” with me.

After finishing my morning ablutions, I exited feeling joyously lighter to a dog that thought I was never coming back.  He celebrated, nearly destroying a wall of dryers, and then proceeded to investigate all the washers.  And the door, and the mat in front of the door.  I maneuvered him back into our realm, leaving Mordor and all its laundry equipment behind.

For 10 seconds. . .then he was pawing at the connecting door.  I firmed my resolve to not let him back.  Which lasted 10 more seconds.  Being that there was nobody in the laundromat, I opened the door.  He proceeded to the exit, discovered the dirty, thin, disgusting mat, and promptly laid down and slept on it for three hours at which time he decided it was quitting time.  Problem:  It’s not even noon yet.

We got him quieted down with several treats (not spoiled, remember).  He proceeded to sleep until a client came in.  He decided she was his long lost buddy he’d met seconds ago.  Back to the laundromat side.  This time involuntarily.

Five years later, it’s 2 pm.  Client has left, dog is back with us and needs to go potty.  Oh, you’re thinking, he’s been there 5 hours and hasn’t been out yet.  Oh, dear reader, you don’t understand Remus.  Every 1.5 hours he goes out.  He pees.  He rolls in the snow.  He comes back in.  He realizes that his paws are wet and must be dried.  So he licks them dry.  That’s his theory.  In practice, he forces one of us to take him out by panting and whining every 10 miliseconds.  He spends what is the equivalent of 45 years in dog years finding that perfect blade of grass or snowflake to pee on.  He then fights coming back in. We succeed in getting him in, and he starts licking his paws until I give up, get toweling and dry them.  Repeat ad nauseum.

So there you have it. Somehow he made it until 7 pm alive.  I’d have killed him were it not for the fact that I hate institutional food and look awful in orange.

Thanks for reading.  If you have a dog like Remus, I know you’re ready for vacation.  When you get done drying his or her paws and are ready for your next trip call 833.559.4590.  Remus will help you book it.   And, NO I WON’T DOG SIT!

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