Raindrops and red cheeks

Raindrops splattered the windscreen like sound effects in a kid’s comic.  The summer storm had intensified and visibility was quickly changing from irritatingly poor to downright dangerous.  From the back of the car came a half hearted grumble.  Einstein didn’t much care for rain at the best of times.  This current assault had triggered the rear wipers he detested and he was making his feelings clear.

We’d done a lot of car trips, Einstein and I.  My parents had a house on the Mosel and we were regular visitors.  We had an understanding.  In silence, Einstein would endure the ferry crossing and the many hours in the car.  As his reward, we took long, companionable walks.  I would order a tub of ice cream at one of the riverside cafes and he would bury his nose into it and lick it clean.  Together, we explored castles and bought wine.  Not once had his wagging tail knocked a bottle over.  He revelled in the fuss he invariably received.  In turn, I delighted in the jovial salutations that followed when the locals learned his name: Ein-schtein!  Back at the house, Mum and Dad spoiled him rotten, indulging his every whim and fussing him on demand.

This trip was a little more ambitious.  We’d spent the night at the house, as usual.  But today, instead of snoozing lazily in the sun (me) and flopping across the kitchen doorway in the hope of scraps (him), we’d packed up the car and hit the road again.  Golden retrievers are a stubborn breed.  It had taken some persuasion to prise Einstein from the breakfast dishes and into the boot of the car.  Grumpy didn’t cover it.

So now we were on the autobahn bound for Austria, Einstein’s eyes fixed resolutely on the road behind us.  Somewhere near Munich, I thought, but it was hard to see the car in front, let alone the road signs.  Not that the weather was slowing down the local drivers, who appeared in the rear view mirror out of nowhere and overtook as if we were standing still.  A lone woof nudged above the sound of the engine.  It was time to pull off the road and take a break.  Spotting a motorway service station, I slowed the car and swung into a space in the middle of the car park.

Raising the tailgate, a doleful face greeted me.  In protest, Einstein made no attempt to get out.  I waited.  Ever since he was a puppy, he’d done things at his own pace and there was little point in trying to hurry him.  Finally, he got to his feet and jumped down.  A wince crossed his face as his paws hit the asphalt.  As he moved forward, there was a pronounced limp.  Einstein had been known to fake such a limp for effect, so I wasn’t unduly concerned.  I wondered, though, if it might be a slight touch of cramp and figured a gentle walk might do him good.  Einstein thought otherwise and after a few steps, laid himself down in the middle of the car park, blocking the traffic.  I rummaged in my pocket for a treat but found only crumbs.

It was still raining heavily.  Droplets of water dampened my hair before percolating slowly and persistently to the nape of my neck and down to the small of my back.  On the surface, Einstein’s thick cream curls were slick, his waterproof overcoat perfectly suited to keeping him dry.  My rain jacket was somewhat less effective and as a result, my patience was wearing thinner than a gossamer stocking.

“Come on, get up doggo.”

No response.  I tried a lighter tone.

“Einy, sweetie, up you get.”

Defiant, Einstein rolled slowly and deliberately onto his side, exhaling deeply.  It wasn’t the first time he’d decided to do this.  At the park, my usual tactic was to walk away and wait for him to follow, which he did, eventually.  Here, I couldn’t risk leaving him, even to grab a treat from the car.

Trying a different tactic, I knelt down and attempted to lever his dead weight upright.  It was hopeless.  When he was this uncooperative, I simply wasn’t strong enough.  I could lift his head and shoulders off the ground, but as soon as I switched to his rear end, he rolled back again.  It was a battle of wills and I was losing.  Defeated, I began to look around for someone who might help.  A couple of passing Dutchmen brushed me off.  I couldn’t blame them.  What sane person wanted to lift thirty-odd kilos of wet dog?  Beneath all that stubbornness he was sweet natured and gentle, but they couldn’t know that.

Time passed at a crawl.  Drivers manoeuvred carefully around us and motorists returning to their vehicles took elaborate detours lest they were called upon to assist.  I was just going to have to wait for Einstein to move, however long that might take.  I allowed myself a wistful daydream of the holiday we could have been enjoying further north and muttered a silent prayer to the Tyrolean gods that the Alps would be worth all this stress – if we ever got there.

After what seemed forever, help arrived in the form of a rotund German with extravagant facial whiskers.  His car was parked next to mine.  Scanning the scene, he understood my predicament.  Without speaking he lifted the boot.  Inside was a cool box.  And inside that was a fat heap of sausages.  My spirits lifted.  At last, something to determine whether Einstein was genuinely in pain.

It didn’t take long to get my answer.  Spying the sausage, Einstein raised his head and leapt to his feet.  He trotted over to the man without a backward glance, miraculously cured.  Stiffly, I got to my feet and smoothed down my wet trousers in a vain attempt to look presentable.  I walked over, relief mixed with exasperation, as the dog wriggled himself into a perfect sit in front of his new best friend and sneezed with excitement.  Gazing up with adoration, Einstein wolfed down the first tasty morsel.  With a cute tilt of the head, he raised a damp paw in anticipation of the next.

I grinned.  We’d be hiking those Alpine trails after all.  Red cheeked, I enticed him to our car and high-tailed it to the border.