The Bowie Chronicles pt 1

The road out of hell

Any notions I had of fireside, pipe, slippers and dog were dispelled within the first minutes of taking custody of Bowie. His sweet nature so downtrodden by whatever had brought him to now, was only visible in short glimpses as it broke the surface of his confusion calling out for something, somebody, somewhere he could finally relax.

The journey home, a fifteen or twenty minute walk from where I picked him up, was a baptism of fire that stretched into a 2 hour epic in the late afternoon heat.

We set off brightly as Bowie dragged me the first 100 metres until stopping abruptly to adopt a posture that spelt trouble. Instinct warned me to stand clear before he fired off what would be his first torrent of diarrhoea that day. Fortunately in a fairly empty street and with no means to clean it up, we moved on and made it a further ten metres before a second salvo did for the other side of the road. I shrugged and apologised to an old woman stood scowling at us, but my apology was hollow and she was soon gone from mind. Other concerns weighed heavier given this inauspicious start to our walk home.

I had paid the shelter for Bowie’s transport and was questioning it as the struggle that lay ahead began to dawn on me. They had brought a dog with other dogs to a place they were going anyway and it wasn’t conveniently located at all. I was expecting somewhere closer to my neighbourhood and was angered to later find out he’d had a rough time in the van. No mention was made of it as we were waved off into the sunset as a job well done. If the road to hell was paved with good intentions, then the road back out was getting paved with diarrhoea and vomit.

What do you do when there’s no choice but to press on? Press on we did although with Bowie freezing and refusing to budge more than a metre or so at a time, all I could do was coax. Every conceivable question passed through my mind though most could be parsed as ‘what have I done?’

We crept from shade to shade as Bowie, panting like a steam train and vomiting intermittently, drew the attention of every passing stranger. The optics of trying to get another metre out of him doubtlessly cast me as an animal abuser though not one to cross swords with that afternoon. Nonetheless, by the umpteenth time I explained the story to a concerned bystander, I’d managed to keep to firm and concise explanation over less charitable urges.

It would be an early night for us both or at least that was the idea, so we took a walk around the block for a last pee. Possibly aware that nothing untoward was going on, Bowie was reasonably eager to stretch his legs and do his business. Still pulling hard on the leash it was clear he had abundant energy reserves as I neared empty. Stopping a few times to pee I felt confident the tank must be dry or close to. My hope however was dashed and quickly turned to alarm as he adopted a now familiar position. I stood aside as he sprayed the path with yet more diarrhoea. Incredulous, I half expected to see his innards emerge although my wonderment was curtailed by the ghastly stench that followed. Mildly relieved at Bowie’s choice of location I had only to warn one approaching couple of the soiled path ahead. The contrast in our fortunes was made starker as they rhythmically side-stepped it, laughing and bathing in each other’s glow like Fred and Ginger. I stared blankly for a moment at the grim mess on the path until Bowie yanked me in the direction of some fresh distraction. ‘You should be inside-out by now’ I muttered as he stuck his snout into a drain cover.

It took some persuasion to get him back up the eighty steps to the flat and I was in no hurry to repeat the feat before morning. I have since come to recognise Bowie’s ability to tap into his reserves of energy when best suits him and appear as if scaling Everest without oxygen when not.

I had never dreamt I’d find myself cleaning diarrhoea from my terrace at three in the morning. However, in keeping with events up to that point and given Bowie’s seemingly inexhaustible supply, I should at least have dreamt it possible before bedding down. I set up my sun lounger in the living room to keep an eye on him for his first night and watched as his eyes drooped in and out of sleep. Still panting loudly, exhausted and stressed but resigned, he was at least comfortable.

Perhaps my eyes had briefly closed, though not long enough to register any sleep, when Bowie got up and came to me lying opposite him. He made a few whining sounds and appeared restless. Not as alert as the moment called for, I sat up and watched as he sniffed the wooden floor of the living room before doing the same to the kitchen tiles. He hovered briefly on one then the other as if recalling some distant house training and then whined some more. Receiving no more from me than kind words and puzzlement, he opted for the kitchen and peed.

Hardly the moment to chastise the poor thing, he looked at me sheepishly as I cleaned up. A short while later, a similar display saw me leap into action and lead him out onto the terrace for what I assumed would be his hundredth or so pee. Completely awake now, I watched in horror as he again adopted that telling posture and let rip with yet another fresh torrent of foul smelling diarrhoea. A night seared into memory and far from over.

I chained Bowie so he wouldn’t walk the diarrhoea into the flat and set about washing it away. Doing my utmost to not add vomit to the nightmare, I wondered what was left in his colon and if I could yet conclude he was finally empty. Prepared as I was with cleaning gear, my mental preparedness was lacking and some time and retching later, I decided we’d better take another precautionary walk.

Just one of what were a further five or so in the early hours of that morning, it produced further diarrhoea and abundant pee before I finally gave up on the idea of getting any sleep at all. The sun in conflict with my body clock, rose on what was also the day of my first Covid vaccination. Bowie had come to accept sleep was now safe enough and did so for longer periods as I pined for any I might get myself. A friend arrived to watch over him and I left shell-shocked to queue for my first jab across town. I had no contingency plans and had she not come, my nerves already in tatters may have been totally shot by lunchtime.

Following a day of fasting, I finally fed Bowie some healthy dog meal in the hope he’d start building some solids. He ate it in seconds and I would indeed see a more solid product the next morning, though his use of the terrace as a latrine remained to be dealt with. The evening of a day from hell was less hellish but almost as sleepless. I again bed down on the sun lounger as we both kept a wary eye on the other, grabbing whatever moments of sleep couldn’t be fought back.

I take a step back to admire my freshly mopped floor. Any satisfaction is fleeting but that’s okay, I’ll probably get to clean it a few more times before the day is out.

He looks up at me, unperturbed by all the vacuuming and mopping that’s been going on around him and my heart sinks as he gets to his feet. ‘Now? really?’ I ask, but he pays no mind. The dog shaped patch of still dirty, dry floor could just as easily be marked out in police tape some days but I shrug; he’s come so far these past two months, let him be.

The paw prints through my briefly clean floor lead to his bed where he sets to work putting one of his chew-toys through its paces. Indestructible it’s claimed. We’ll see.

I empty the vacuum cleaner of mostly dog hair and dust and then light another stick of incense to assist the plug-in Alpine meadows. If it’s a toss-up between a house that smells of dog or Buddhist temple in the Alps, then Alpine Buddhist temple with resident dog it is.

There are a good few levels between background ‘eau de dog’ and decent incense but there are also a good number beneath. Perhaps Bowie has an innate gift for producing eye-watering flatulence, or maybe it’s a sign he feels relaxed enough to audibly and shamelessly let rip in the comfort of his new home. Either way, even he sometimes flees the scene, leaving me to squint tearfully through whatever remains of a video conference.

Although the heat of summer leaves us both wiped out, I’m grateful to have the windows open and I shudder at the thought of closing them in cooler months. ‘Relax’ I think out loud, ‘that’s a way off yet, open windows let in as much dust and noise as they do air.’ I bristle as I recall the pricks in the next building setting Bowie off with their drunken singing in the early hours of the morning. Winter will have its pros and cons too.

By rights he really ought to be bald given the hair he sheds. But even as I watch it float and fall with every stroke and chew-toy tug-of-war, it’s a price worth paying. My vacuum is getting the same sort of run for its money as any of his toys and proves its worth multiple times daily.

His chew-toys are a great source of entertainment and he’ll go hard at them until overcome by thirst and the need for a nap. His bed now unmade and full of biscuit crumbs from inside his toys, obliges him to relocate to a cleaner spot to get his head down. His legs soon begin twitching then pick up speed to a decent trot as he wanders around his dreamscape. Whinnying noises and other vocalised dreams punctuate what can’t be restful sleep. The coup de gras comes as he begins his muffled barking dream before awakening to look around, stretch all four legs and ponder his next move. The bathroom floor has now warmed under him so he rises and staggers drunken like to the living room to repeat the cycle. Prints of his mouth in dry slobber surrounded by a light dusting of hair, plot the course of his day around the flat. I’ll deal with it later I think, there’s more to life than cleaning up. It’ll soon be time for another walk.