By Tim Carman
Bubba had, as friends frequently reminded me, a mind of his own. What they really meant, of course, was that Bubba didn't play well with others. He didn't fetch when they asked him to. He didn't come when they wanted him. He didn't do anything unless he deemed it absolutely necessary. Bubba did, for the most part, listen to me. If I was the Alpha dog in our little pack, Bubba was the Beta. He reported to no one but me.
Except for that time in 1988, after I first moved to Houston. I had arrived in the east Texas city a year earlier, hired as a reporter and critic for the now defunct Houston Post. During the Christmas holidays of 1988, I decided to fly back to Kansas City, where my best friends and some of my family still lived. Not wanting to leave Bubba—a Benji-wannabe terrier mix whom I called by a variety of semi-stupid nicknames, such as The Bubster, Bubbaloo, and Mr. Bubba—in a swampy Southern city hundreds of miles away from snow and loved ones, I opted to bring along the pooch. So I bought a plastic animal carrier, took The Bubs (yet another nickname) to a veterinarian for a drug to sedate him for the trip, and even performed a test run before the real flight.
On the night of the test run, I took the vet's advice. I gave Bubba a sedation drug about an hour before placing him in the animal carrier. This exercise was designed to get The Bubs "familiar" and "comfortable" with his cramped temporary lodgings. To Bubba, of course, this was the equivalent of a king abandoning his palace for a shotgun shack. He was having none of it. At first, I tried to coax the doped-up dog into the carrier. When that didn't work, I tried gently guiding him into the contraption (read: I tried to hold his snaky paws and head and push him inside). When that didn't work, I removed the top half of the carrier, placed Bubba onto the bottom half, and raced to secure the upper portion before he bolted out the poorly secured opening.
This was clearly a dog not destined for air travel.
Since I couldn't afford a professional pet sitter, I was forced to ask one of my new colleagues at the Post to watch The Bubs. I didn't know Bonnie well, but she seemed to have a soft spot for animals. I figured Bubba would be in good hands. More important, I figured Bubba wouldn't drive her crazy.
I figured wrong.
I don't remember now what day I dropped Bubba off, but I do remember that it was sunny and cloudless. The drapes were open over the large picture window in the front of Bonnie's house, allowing the sunlight to warm and brighten her living room. I delivered Bubba to Bonnie, explained the basic Bubba Care, and even brought along a few of The Bubs's favorite toys. Then I left them both, secure in the knowledge that I had done the right thing. As I got into the car to leave for the airport, I looked back at the picture window. There, sitting on the arm of the couch, was Bubba, pining like a Bronte sister looking out over the lonely Yorkshire moors.
I should have taken that as an omen.
About a week later, when I returned from Kansas City, I drove immediately to Bonnie's house. As soon as I got out of the car, I noticed that Bubba was exactly where I left him: on the arm of the couch, staring out the window. When I asked Bonnie how The Bubs behaved, she complimented him, but with a distinct hesitation. Then she laughed, somewhat nervously I thought. Suddenly, I was anxious.
"So, what did he do?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to know the answer.
"Well, he had a few accidents," Bonnie responded.
"I can't believe that!" I cried, ever so helpfully. "He's house-trained. He never does that at home."
"It's no big deal," Bonnie volunteered, generous to a fault. "He just went a few times on the rug."
Embarrassed, I muttered apologies several times and slunk away with my suddenly accident-prone pooch.
From that day on, I always hired a professional pet sitter for Bubba whenever I traveled. He was much happier with the arrangement. And I was saved any future embarrassments.
Bubba died two years ago this December. He was 17 and a half years old, feisty and independent until the end. But even today, I still think back to that Christmas holiday more than a dozen years ago. I think about how I could have handled it differently. Of course, this was years before the Internet and years before I started working at The Humane Society of the United States. I didn't have the knowledge that you have now, at your very fingertips.
Whether your pet, like Bubba, prefers the comforts of home over the stresses of travel or actually likes to go for long rides, The HSUS can provide you with tips on how best to care for you four-legged companion. Follow the link below for information on animal-friendly hotel accommodations, preparing your pet's travel supplies, or even hiring a pet sitter.
Tim Carman is managing editor of The HSUS web site.
