An aspiring writer's tiny existence in New York City while chasing a dream, and hoping that somehow this crazy, random thing called "life" all works out.
For sending inspiration and/or fanmail, please use: scottkurttila@hotmail.com
Just over ten years ago, I was moving from Seattle to Colorado Springs. My life was in flux, turmoil, even. I was grasping at straws after my grandmother passed away. She had raised me and my sister when we lost our parents in a plane crash in 1971. She was an extraordinary woman, through and through. After she passed away, succumbing to cancer the morning of my graduation from Georgetown University, my course went rudderless against the currents in life. I swirled, failed and flailed, miserably so. I decided that moving from Seattle and the home where we last lived together while she underwent treatment for breast cancer would do me some good. It was a bit too difficult to swallow the daily emptiness and her absence left an unfillable pit in my stomach. I decided to take up competitive figure skating again and the place to do that was Colorado Springs, the skating capital of the world.
I called my former coach, Kathy Casey and she said "come on down, we'll take care of you." Having spent more of my life on skates than in shoes, returning to the sport felt safe and comfortable, like returning home after living in a foreign country where you don't know the language. I packed up my trusty 1982 Chevy Suburban named "Burbie" with the remnants of my life after our house was cleaned out and then rented out. I knew that I wanted a life change from this journey, but I didn't realize that it would come covered in matted fur with breath so bad that it could stop a freight train.
It was my first leg of the journey and it was about 3 a.m., 100 miles from nowhere, USA. I had about 1/4 of a tank of diesel in my beast of a vehicle and was going to attempt to drive through the night when the roads were empty and you could do 80 on a whim without flack from the state patrol. As I drove from Idaho into Utah, I went about three miles and saw a huge, red neon sign which simpy said "fuel." In retrospect, I got fuel for Burbie and fuel for my soul by taking Exit 3, Snowville, Utah. As I slowly pulled into the pump, I put the lid back on a bucket of KFC that rode shotgun in my cooler on the front bench seat. I had to brake quickly because a mangy looking mutt was taking his time drinking from one of the puddles near the pumps. I turned the car off, stepped out and watched the dog continue to slurp. It broke my heart to see him licking the gas and diesel tainted water from the cement which was colored with the unmistakable rainbows of fossil fuels mixed with water. I shivered and looked at my thermometer on the rearview mirror of Burbie. It was 24 degrees Farenheit and wind swept the dry snow past me in white ghostlike swirls while I pumped with my hand up my coat sleeve.
I went inside to pay as the dog regarded me from a safe distance near the door of a built-in restaurant in this lonely truckstop. A trucker came out of the door which hit the dog warming himself against it. He cursed at the dog and gave a feeble missing kick toward the scrawny four-legged doormat. I continued to feel for the wayward creature. As the cashier was running my credit card, I asked her who the dog belonged to.
"Oh him? He's been here for about three weeks. Just wandered in. He's starving and probably going to die soon so please take him if you can." She lamented somewhat pleadingly.
"Really? He looks like a good dog but he's really dirty. I'll call my girlfriend and double check with her." My girlfriend was currently still in college for two more years and she was in Paris doing a year abroad at the moment. It was noon her time and I put in the call on this fine February 6, 1992 morning.
"What?!!!? NO! You can't get a dog! You have no place to live yet and we were going to get a puppy and raise it together to practice for a children when we get married! No way. NO. Don't you dare!"
"Okay, I love you, bye!" And I hung up. "Do you sell dog food in here?" I asked the cashier.
"Right over there, hun, bottom shelf. And here, take this chicken, it's been under these heatlamps all night and I'm about to throw it out. God bless you for taking him."
"I don't really want or need a dog right now, I don't even know where I'm going to live in Colorado, but I'll at least get him to a pound for adoption if nothing else. Thanks and have a good night!"
"You, too, dear!" She called after me as I went to collect man's best friend. He was tentative at best, completely fearing more kicking, cursing strangers. I set a piece of the chicken on the ground and walked to my car. I looked back and dog and chicken were out of sight. As I shoved things around on my front seat and rear cargo area to make more room for a medium sized dog, I felt eyes on the back of my head. Turning around, there he was, closer this time but still 10 feet of cautiousness away. More chicken on the ground, more disappearing and then he returned right up to me. I handed over the last piece of fried fowl and he gently took it from my fingers and wandered away over a snowbank. A minute later he was back and I opened the driver door wide and said "Wanna go for a ride?" and zip...he leapt right on in like a pro, turned an sat up on the seat as any passenger would do and then he looked my was is if to say "what are you waiting for, this is a road trip, isn't it?"
I chuckled at his demeanor and climbed in, revved the diesel engine and turned up the radio. Guns 'n Roses was blaring, November Rain over the speakers. The dog sat smiling, watching everything go past the windows with supreme interest: trees, signs, other cars. I rolled down my window a tad to keep from gagging on the scent of his matted, oil-caked black fur. I tried petting his ears, but couldn't find them beneath thicks matts of hair and huge burs that stuck me like spiked golf balls. I figured I would pass the time by seeing if I could figure out his name. I worked my way through the basics, "Buck, Lou, Laddie, Joe, Rover, Blackie, Sam..." No response. I then went about it logically, starting with each vowel in turn and going through every vowel/consonant combination I could think of before going through double syllable vowel/consonant/vowel combinations, "Al, Allay, Alley, Allo, Ally, Ed, Edday, Edd-eye, Eddo, Eddie..." Still nothing.
I gave up and suddenly "AxL" hit me out of the blue as the perfect truck stop dog name. He didn't care what I called him, in fact, he didn't care about me at all. Each stop was a time kill of coaxing a collarless, non-loyal dog back into the car with shaking keys, KFC and gentle guiding by hand. Evenutally, he learned to respond to the car keys the most so I used "AxL" when shaking the car keys and eventually he caught on. Around six, I was tired and decided to pull over and rest a bit and see if I couldn't clean some of the mats from his fur before sleeping. I pulled into a motel, got a room, snuck him in and went to work on his mats with a pair of keychain fold-out scissors. An hour later, a heap of stinking bur-filled fur filled the small garbage can. I bid him sweet dreams and passed out.
Four hours later, I awoke to find fur spread about the room as like a cottonwood tree spreads itself over a lawn. It was everywhere. He had methodically pulled it out, bit by bit and tried to cover every square inch of bad motel shag with it. Eventually, I got it cleaned up to the degree that I didn't think they would charge my credit card behind me for a some cleaning/damage fee and we drove off again.
I arrived in Colorado Springs that night and stayed at my coach's house. AxL wasn't allowed inside so he stayed in the car on the bench seat he grew to love as his own personal couch on wheels. The next morning, we hit the groomer. Five hours, four washings and $30 later, he came out shining and smiling.
"This is my dog?" I asked incredulously. "He's got white on him! And tan! He looks like a dark Lassie!"
"Yea, isn't he beautiful?" The two grooming girls beamed with pride at their work. "Man was he ever dirty and matted. Worst dog we've ever seen in here. Thank you for saving him, though. He's a good soul." Those were words I would hear again and again from folks who just met him. "He's a good soul."
The vet was next and I was expecting to hear the worst seeing as the dog was pretty calm, I calculated his age to be about 13 or 14, maybe 15. I thought I had picked up an old soul, was going to give him a few good months and then he would pass on.
The vet returned from the back room to find me thumbing through a magazine in the reception area.
"Looks like you found yourself a pup!" He smiled.
"What? Are you kidding me? I didn't even want a dog and now you're telling me he's a puppy?"
"Yep, one, maybe two years old at most. He's really emaciated, only 38 pounds and he should be about 60 so you'll have to put some meat on his bones. Other than that, he's in great shape and you've got yourself a fine dog, son."
"Are you sure?"
"Yep, here, look at his teeth. These are still young dog teeth. It's the best indicator of age as they're still just in which means he's young. Oh, and he had stitches in from being neutered recently." The mystery of this dog thickened like a fog. I had left my name and my coach's phone number at the truck stop in case the owners happened by, looking for their long lost family pet. Now my spirits dampened a bit knowing he'd been neutered recently and I figured it was just a matter of time before the call ame and the dog went. It's now 2002, over 10 years later and the call never came. The girlfriend went, as girlfriends do but the dog is here. Master of getting through thick and thin, man's best friend, loyal care taker, companion, good ear, undying love, furry angel.
To this day, I firmly believe in heaven and God and a grandmother's ability to send a small, unlikely messenger that she was still looking out for me in some way even though she was gone. I've learned more about life, love and the joy of just being without proving anything from AxL than I have learned in any college classroom. And the tuition costs about as much as kibble. So, if you're ever down and out, feeling lost, rudderless or wayward, go to the dog pound and look for a good soul who speaks to you with his eyes. Have a dog.