Brandy and the Squeegee Men

Brandy and the Chevy

He was a rescue in the truest sense of the word, about to be put down the very day I persuaded my boss to let me have him. 

I guess he rescued me as well. Every college girl should have a fierce yellow dog to keep her safe from harm.

The wild little fellow had been brought into the animal hospital where I worked with claims that he had "fallen down the stairs."

Kicked down the stairs was more like it. The veterinarian I worked for put a pin in his broken leg, put all the other broken, twisted pieces back together and sent for the owners. They never returned. The teenaged pup was messy and barky and kind of snappy so his fate was sealed. Until I begged so long and hard to have him.

He was one of the best two dogs I ever had. I took him everywhere I went, college, visiting, out at night, every single place. He was not popular with some, beloved by others. Stole ham, learned to climb ladders, dig when and where directed, and tops in his obedience class. He never saw a ball, stick, or Frisbee he didn't want to chase. 

He would not let anyone he didn't know touch me or my truck. To reach for the door handle was to trigger a display of gnashing teeth and fierce snarling and slavering at the window that would back pretty much anyone right straight down. Came in handy now and then.

It was the early 70s. My Chevy pick up was the best vehicle among us so off we went to the Big Apple to buy cheap textbooks.

There is not much about that city that appeals to me and in those years it was even more lawless than now. Scary stuff was commonplace.

Cramped in traffic on a back block off the mainstream streets, the truck was overrun by squeegee men. They climbed all over all the cars and trucks, grinning and slapping dirty rags on windshields. Being a child of the boondocks I was terrified. The boys were just disgruntled, because, yeah, there were quite a few of us crammed in that cab. College kids and all, you know.

Did I mention that I was a strong proponent of love me, love my dog? And that he agreed? Thus even NYC was his oyster. 

A leering face loomed over our window as a nasty rag slopped some nameless substance across it. Several tattered men clambered up on the truck from all sides. We were stopped whether we wanted to be or not. Yikes!

Up from the floor, where he had been stuffed among the feet, came a screaming  fur missile. 

Teeth slammed the inside of the windshield, nom, nom, nom, while paws scrabbled for purchase on the dash. Drool flew.

It was awesome. He was only a 35-pound fluffy yellow mutt, but Brandy was a mighty fierce boy. 

Squeegee men tumbled off the truck as if they had received a terrible shock.

Which I suppose they had.

We grabbed a green light and hustled to Barnes and Noble, where we parked illegally and bought a lot of books. 

I won't call it fun exactly but it sure was an adventure.

And every time I see a headline about the new onslaught of unwanted car detailers these days, I remember that bright golden dog. What a good boi he was.