Riding in cars with dogs

On this day in 1965, I woke up in a motel in Lead, SD.  I was 11 years old. We were driving from Phoenix to Dollar Bay, a little town near Houghton, MI, where my Dad operated a Standard Oil gas station. 

The night before, on the last miles into Deadwood from Wyoming, there had been hundreds of deer grazing in the semi-darkness along the highway.  I had never seen so many.  On this day, we continued toward Minnesota, across the beautiful state of South Dakota (Not being sarcastic, I love the Great Plains).  I remember we drove through Belle Fourche and across what is now US 212 and ended the day in St Cloud, MN. 

Not Tootles, but looks like Tootles

The most memorable event of the day was our stop at the bank of the Missouri River, just west of Gettysburg.  We all piled out and down to the river, including our dog Tootles.  Tootles gloried in the momentary freedom – she was definitely a road-tripper, even had her own “seat” in that big ’56 Chrysler Windsor on top of a square suitcase placed on the back seat, which raised her up high enough that she could survey the passing scenery to her satisfaction. 

But like any dog, she loved to romp and run if she could and check things (everything) out at any stop we made.  When it came time to get back in the car and continue on, we discovered that Tootles had found something extremely dead along the riverbank and rolled in it completely.  Whatever it was, it was so far gone it was emulsified. Her new “cologne” would have given new meaning to the term “toilet water.”  The fragrance was intense, overwhelming and extremely unpleasant.  “Putrid” would be an accurate descriptor. And nothing took it off. 

We stopped at a filling station in Gettysburg, and Dad and Vera leashed the dog to the hydraulic lift in the service bay (so she couldn’t flee the hose), and they washed her with every anti-stink remedy known to man and woman-kind.  Soap, vinegar, milk, tomato juice. You name it, they tried it.  Maybe even pine-sol, I don’t know. To no avail; the pooch still stunk.  The only one who wasn’t offended by the smell was the dog herself, who seemed to think the odor was attractive.

That fragrance didn’t go away for at least a couple of weeks, and it made the last day and a half of our journey most memorable (It had been fun up to that point).  I don’t remember at all, but I’d bet a week’s pay we drove with the windows all down from that point on.

This dog was also a dedicated drunk, but that is another story.