[Dailydrool] Duchess and the Driveway (a DD CLASSIC)

[Susan Randolph]

Since several people recalled with such fondness the wonderful tale of 
Duchess and the Driveway, I thought I'd share it again. Beth kindly granted 
permission for me to include the story in YOU HAD ME AT AHROOO (which also 
includes two classic TBO tales and the hysterial Rosie and the Squid story 
and the Annie and the Turkey classic and SO many more). Read... enjoy... and 
if you want more, please order YOU HAD ME AT AHROOO at 
www.fortheloveofdog.net (all profits are split between BROOD and House of 
Puddles).

TAR BABY (a.k.a. Duchess in the Driveway)

It began innocently enough. On my father's list of end-of-the-summer 
projects was re-tarring the driveway. One clear Monday, he assembled his 
tools and spent the morning neatly spreading coal tar along the length of 
the driveway. All morning. With exceeding neatness. This is how we piece 
together what happened next:

Duchess was in the midst of her morning workout, which consists of 
maneuvering her aerodynamically improbable basset-body from one side of the 
yard to the other. This accomplished, she takes a well-deserved rest for the 
remainder of the day. Since Duchess doesn't believe in wasted energy, this 
day she chose the shortest route. The fact that it took her across the 
driveway was of no interest to her. But since she seldom manages to 
coordinate long ears, flopping jowls, and those huge, silly paws for a 
flawless journey, the fact was of great interest to everyone else. Because 
halfway across, she slipped.

There were no witnesses, but I can picture how she must have looked, since 
she trips frequently on our daily walks. The big, old, undependable feet 
just went out from under her. She must have landed on her face and chest and 
then simply slid-the entire width of the driveway.

We were unaware of her adventure until I heard a familiar whine at the door. 
When I opened it, there was her face, eager with greeting. That was all I 
recognized. Her head was coated in tar. Her face. Her white jowls. Her neck, 
her chest, her ears (inside and out), her stubby front legs, her oversized 
paws. Only the red-rimmed eyes, with their practiced mournful gaze fixed 
expectantly on me, looked familiar.

I was on the phone in an instant. Yes, the vet would see us right away. We 
lined the back seat of the car with newspaper. And plastic. And a washing 
machine load of towels. It took two people to get her in. Hoisting the rear 
was the less-favored task.

She mumbled to herself the whole trip. Occasionally an accusing red eye 
would look up. I was having a pleasant little morning, she told us, and then 
suddenly all this happens. If you'd just leave me alone, I could sleep.

In the office, she just looked at the floor, her tail wrapped between her 
legs, her muscles limp. If I pretend I'm not here, maybe they'll all go 
away. The vet was horrified, in a professional way, at her condition. "I'm 
afraid I'll have to totally shave her," he said sadly. The vision of a bald 
basset hound made us quiver between laughter and tears. We had to leave her. 
Her expression is burned into my mind. It took them until the end of the 
day. The dog we picked up, with hair intact, at least looked familiar, if 
emotionally exhausted. "I finally had to send out to a car repair place for 
a special product called 'Goop'," the vet explained, seeming equally 
exhausted. "We scoured her clean."

Poor dog. Scour was the right word. Her red skin showed through the 
discolored fur. She didn't even want sympathy. She crawled into the car, 
squeezed her eyes shut, and didn't notice our reaction to the $65 cleaning 
bill. She slept for two days.

Back to the driveway. My mother thought she could disguise the evidence, the 
frisky footprints and then the long, sliding curve. She found the brush my 
father had used and spent a long time using feathery little strokes until 
she was satisfied. Of course, she couldn't fool the expert.

"What happened," were his first weary words when he came home. Not only had 
he noticed the attempts at patching, but he had noticed his brush, the one 
he had just bought especially for the job. My mother hadn't realized it 
should be washed out. Now coated with tar, it had hardened into a permanent 
reminder of the day's adventure.

It was good Duchess slept for two days. That was how long it took before my 
father was ready to talk to her again. He bought a new brush, new tar, and 
waited through a rainy week for Friday to re-re-tar the driveway. I came 
home at lunchtime Friday and found him on a chaise lounge he'd dragged out 
front so he could be next to his freshly finished driveway. He lay there 
with his arms folded, just waiting for a dog, a cat, a bird, a leaf to dare 
to land on his proud new job.

"Where's your shotgun?" I called. I don't think he found it amusing. At the 
bottom of the driveway, his brush leaned against the empty bucket of tar, 
blocking the entrance. He wasn't taking any chances. Except where my mother 
was concerned.

The car was parked in the street. She started it up and blithely drove 
forward. The grinding crash rocketed my father off the chaise. The car's 
right front wheel was balanced on top of the bucket. "I didn't see it!" she 
called from the front seat, making matters worse by shifting into reverse 
and running over the bucket again. When she finally decided to stop, my 
father had to crawl under the wheel and retrieve the thoroughly squashed 
bucket. In his other hand he held two pieces, which moments before had been 
his second new brush of the week.

With ideal timing, we left for our vacation in Maine the next morning. But 
we have a reminder of the whole episode. In the manner of Grauman's Chinese 
Theater, we now have immortalized in tar a perfect trail of enormous basset 
paw prints marching neatly down the length of our flagstone walk.

Putting in a new walk is one of my father's projects for next summer. We may 
pack up the dog and move away that week.

Beth Hinchliffe, Posted to the Daily Drool, ca. 1996