Lemmings To The Cliff

The keys rattle. The hand reaches. Yes, yes. Leash is off the hook….and the crowd goes wild. The beasts are at the gate, gnashing and moaning. As the knob turns all eyes are on the door. At the first stir of the hinges…. BANG, they’re off! Three unique tom-tom tattoos of paws on the stairs beat in rapid succession. I am pulled along not only by the tenacious sense of mission imbued by the rushing, yelping team, but also by the tensile tethers of these fervent mongrels.
The mission reads like a need-to-know dossier. As the Cerebus yanks me toward the awaiting chariot, these three dogs-become-one do not register that their deliverance to an unwelcome future lies within the windowed confines of the Ford. One-two-three, in they go, each grinning, cheeks held upward with the wild thoughts running behind puppy-dog eyes. The Alpha male, outwardly serene against the high-pitched whine and cry of his companions, shoots me a “The troops will be ready for anything” look across the faded, grey bench seat. Yes, good soldier, no bridge too far. Right.
While we make our way through after-school traffic, with the windows cranked and the radio’s music being carried out, sharing the wind with tri-colored sheddings, the two smaller dogs scramble at the passenger window. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. The door locks are aptly placed for paws. Looking over at the baby of the bunch, he stares through me as if catatonic, his lines blurred with the tremors of potential energy trapped inside. The few miles to the groomer is uneventful, though to hear it from my passengers it was akin to any amusement ride. In fact, for these three unknowing victims, this rollercoaster ends in their own personal hell (of which, I as their betrayer belong in the ninth circle next to Cain).
As I drift the truck into the parking lot, I sneak a glance at these three poor lambs, eyebrows raised, noses searching the air for what lies ahead. Is it naiveté that emboldens them? Is it bravery, that fire under their collars that stirs them forward against the window? Or is it a madness, yes, truly that look, the foaming, open, maniacal grin they wear, begging me, willing my hand to reach for the door latch. “Put me in the game coach, I’m ready!” I have to turn my eyes away, I am shamed.
Pop! Like a pan of hirsute Jiffy-Pop, we explode onto the scene. The truck’s door releases, the dogs come out of the shoot running. The whirling of the three retractable leashes buzz into the afternoon’s calm. Had my seatbelt still been buckled my arms would have felt as Hemingway’s did on the Marlin hunt. But unlike game fish, these dogs are creatures of scent and must pause frequently and as the groomer did not spare the expense of good landscaping I am quick to regain control of the situation.
Even as we approach the door these courageous canines retain their intensity. Pulling, leaping at the glass door, sluicing it with their juicy curiosity, they still remain dim to what lies just on the other side. I cinch the leashes tighter and step behind them, it could occur that one or more may attempt a coward’s getaway once inside. The barbarians are pounding at the gate; scraping, pawing and gnawing, the invaders seek entry. Gaining it, they rush forth, sounding off in anticipation of loot, booty and fortune. Surprise.
What these seekers find on the other side is the sing-song siren call of a dog-loving receptionist, whose brainsick smile gains her no quarter . In fact, her earnestness in addressing the arrival of dogs is so unsettling in its tempo and decibel that I, myself am uneasy. Moonstruck, touched, gaga perhaps, she rushes out, her grin too big, her eyes too wide, and takes a leash. Like a reluctant and furry balloon, plucked from its bunch, one dog at random is whisked to the back room. In all truth, this may well likely be a dog’s House of Pain, a twisted and tortuous laboratory where God knows what happens…though you’d think the regularity of our visits would give insight to the goings on. The backward glance, the pleading eyes of each dog in turn; it would seem otherwise.
One, two, three, they go in, they come out. What evils befell them behind the closed doors is forgotten as soon as I lead them, closely clipped and coifed toward the exit. Their step sprightly, the wide, toothy, grinning masks back in place. The truck in the parking lot gleams to match the sparkle in their eyes. What magical and wondrous places will it take them? Home? The park? Donut shop? The veterinarian? Whatever awaits them, it will be met with unmatched and unquestioned zeal. Like lemmings to the cliff, these three adventurers will march arduously onward to whatever lay ahead