Working Class Dog

Take Your Dog to Work Day was an ill-conceived idea born of equal parts hubris and red wine. I live in Portland, Oregon where people take their dogs everywhere, from strip clubs to the symphony to the office. So naturally, I was game to try it with our Keeshond, Inca. Of course, the majority of dogs in the workplace are well-trained service animals. Inca is neither well-trained nor does she provide any kind of service. Unless barking neurotically at squirrels and terrorizing delivery men is considered a service. Basically, Inca is 200 pounds of goofy wedged into a 40-pound bag.

I work part-time for my husband who operates a startup incubator in downtown Portland. His clients are all dog lovers, so I assumed they’d enjoy seeing Inca and she’d love the stimulation of a bustling downtown environment. It was a win-win, so what could go wrong? Like I said; hubris and red wine.

The morning of operation Take Your Dog to Work Day, we loaded Inca and her gear into the backseat of our minivan and headed downtown to my husband’s offices in the Union Bank Tower, or as I call it Stonehenge. When the tower opened in 1969 it was the tallest building in Portland, and the green slate used throughout was said to have come from the same quarry used to build Stonehenge. Impressive digs for our working class dog. As we pulled into the parking structure beneath the building, I experienced my first qualms. Inca might have been a sweet dog, but was she Stonehenge worthy?

After a quick detour to a nearby bush, we headed back into the building. The qualms I’d had in the parking garage were magnified when I saw the dark trail of wet paw prints on the slate floor behind Inca. My inner voice whispered “mistake!” but I ignored her, she can be such a bitch.

As we entered the elevator a posh looking business woman slid in beside us. She looked us over, offering a curt nod, and then her gaze fell on Inca. As the woman took in Inca’s damp disheveled coat and grinning wolfy face, her eyes grew wide. “She’s very friendly” I assured her, but Posh didn’t reply, she merely flattened herself against the elevator wall clutching her purse, like a shield, across her chest.

Inca’s tongue hung limply from the side of her mouth as she continued to pant and grin at Posh. My dog’s expression can be interpreted as either “Let’s play!” or “Can I help you off with your skin?” depending on the individual. I find her expression endearing, but Posh didn’t seem to share that opinion. We reached her floor and Posh beat a hasty retreat from the elevator.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” I whispered as the doors slid shut. Inca smacked her lips and grinned up at me, tongue sliding to the other side of her mouth. A scattered mess of paw prints littered the elevator floor beneath her. Freaking Stonehenge! I thought, rolling my eyes. It was going to be a long day.

Our arrival at the office was greeted with much fanfare. The clients were thrilled to see Inca and after the cold reception we’d received in the elevator from Posh, I felt Inca had redeemed herself. Maybe she’d be a good office dog after all. Visions of the two of us working together in perfect harmony danced through my head. These delusions wouldn’t last long. Like a cold hard slap in the face, reality was about to set in.

The petting zoo continued to be a hit throughout the morning, right up until “The Toddler Incident”. A client’s visiting two-year-old son was immediately smitten with Inca. He showered her with love, repeatedly grabbing fistfuls of Inca’s fur and burying his sticky face in her lush coat.

Perhaps it was the toddler’s high-pitched squeals or the fact my dog was leashed and trapped, but Inca finally had enough and released a deep-throated growl that needed zero interpretation. Oblivious to Inca’s warning the boy continued to stagger precariously toward her, arms akimbo, squealing in hot drooly anticipation of their embrace. Inca issued a sharp warning bark as the boy stumbled toward her. Just as the child was about to descend, I scooped him up and returned him safely to his father’s arms, apologies spilling from my lips.

The father seemed nonplussed, waving the incident off, but I must admit the potential horror of that situation haunted me. Inca had always been patient with children, but even a patient sweet-natured dog has her breaking point. After the “Toddler Incident”, I quarantined Inca behind the reception desk. The petting zoo was officially closed for the day.

I glanced at the clock, it was only 11 a.m. I wondered if Starbucks made martinis. Just a thought, Howard Schultz.

With nary a martini in sight, I decided some fresh air was in order and hustled Inca downstairs for a quick walk. On our way back I stopped by our van to pick up some supplies. Surely I could balance a few boxes and Inca’s leash, couldn’t I? Gathering all the pluck and spunk we could muster, Inca and I retrieved the packages and headed to the elevator.

There are several elevator options from the parking garage and to my complete dismay, I took the wrong one. Instead of taking the elevator to the building lobby, I accidentally took the one that opened directly into the bank. The elevator doors slid opened and suddenly there we were, in the middle of the Union Bank. Inca strutted past me and into the bank like she owned the joint.

Before I could move the elevator doors slid shut. Horrified, I looked down at the leash in my hand, instead of seeing my dog at the end of it, all I saw was the leather leash firmly wedged between the elevator doors. Which meant on the other side of those doors my dog was alone in the bank.

After a moment to process what was happening (a.k.a. wigging out), I dropped my packages on the floor and fell upon the elevator’s control panel, frantically pressing the “open door” button. After what seemed like an eternity, the doors slid open to reveal Inca waiting calmly on the other side. Queen of the Union Bank.

From my peripheral vision, I spotted the bank’s security desk and knew all eyes were on me. An unchaperoned dog in a bank, that’s normal. No problem! I told myself. Inca threw me a look that read, “Get your shit together, lady!”

Still gripping the leash, I propped open the elevator door with one leg and bent down to claw at the packages strewn across the elevator floor. I’m sure I looked like a crazy bag lady playing Twister alone in the elevator. Nice.

I can’t be sure, but I think I heard giggling coming from the security desk. They were probably taking bets on whether or not my little circus would make it to the lobby doors.

Clutching the boxes I regained my composure and headed toward the exit, Inca padding beside me. I was mere inches away from making my escape when my load shifted and to my horror, a box slid from the top of the stack.

I watched helplessly as it slammed against the glass doors with a deafening smack. The noise reverberated and echoed off the bank walls sounding like a bomb had been detonated. I was too red faced to look but figured security probably had their guns trained on my back.

Mustering what little pluck I had left in reserve, I bent to retrieve my package but before I could reach it, a hand snaked out and snatched it up. I mumbled “thank you” and glanced up to find myself staring into the cool blue eyes of TV’s own Nathan Fillion. “This is yours, I believe,” he said replacing the parcel on top of my stack.

I was completely gobsmacked!

As Nathan smiled and held the door open for us, I staggered past him, unable to take my eyes off his dashing boyish grin and brown feathered hair. I’m a huge fan, but before I could gush my fangirl appreciation for his work, he’d breezed through the lobby and was gone.

“Was that really him?” I asked Inca as we waited for an elevator. Inca merely panted and drooled, she seemed unimpressed. Maybe it was just someone who looked like Nathan Fillion. Perhaps the embarrassment I’d endured in the bank had made me feverish and I was imagining things. But If I had to conjure up a hero, who better to come to my rescue than Firefly’s dashing Captain Malcolm Reynolds, right?

I staggered into the first elevator that opened and dropped everything onto the floor. Inca grinned up at me and wagged her tail. It was business as usual for a working class dog.

Between toddler maulings and Nathan Fillion sightings, it had been a busy but unproductive Friday. My husband and I agreed that Take Your Dog to Work Day had been a complete bust. But it wasn’t Inca who’d failed, it was me. I wasn’t Stonehenge worthy!

My dog had acted on instinct throughout the day while I’d ignored mine at every turn. Deep down I knew that Inca would be far happier in her own backyard than pounding the mean streets of the concrete jungle. But I’d ignored my rational inner voice and forced Inca into a situation she wasn’t suited for.

In the future when wine-fueled “bright ideas” pop into my head, I’ll try to pump the brakes and listen to those instincts. My inner voice might be loud, abrasive and kind of a killjoy, but she’s saved my ass more times than I can count. And when it comes to logical choices, she really is the best in show; a true working class bitch.