by Dave Nasser
Shantel was there to greet us and welcome us to the studios, and she was as great in the flesh as she’d been on the phone. Right away you could see why she did what she did; she was in her thirties, I guess, and just oozed warmth and confidence. She hugged us both warmly and couldn’t get over George; you could see right away she was a real dog lover.
Our green room was lovely, and very starry. The bed for George was a thoughtful touch, and there was a whole bunch of stuff—fruit, fresh coffee, dainty pastries and soft drinks, which we were encouraged to dive right into. Neither Christie nor I was hungry, but George eyed the pastries.
“Oh, no you don’t, Georgie,” Christie warned him. His expression in response to this mild caution was wonderful to see. It said, “Hell, Mom, I’m the star here, okay?”
“Right,” Shantel told us, “this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to go down now and do a dry run in the studio—get George used to what’s down there, all the people and cameras and stuff, okay? We find it helps to get everyone acclimatized to it. It can seem a little daunting if you haven’t been in a studio before.”
She was right too. Leaving Christie in the green room, George and I went down some stairs and along a bunch of long corridors, and eventually found ourselves in this cavernous hangar, the middle part of which I recognized from TV, except that it seemed to be made of chocolate!
“Oh, that’s one of the segments,” Shantel explained, sounding like a TV set made of candy was nothing particularly out of the ordinary. “The whole set behind us”—she cast an arm around her—“is made out of Godiva chocolate. Seventy percent cocoa solids, of course,” she added, grinning while I looked at it in amazement.
But even taking all that in, the place was amazing. It was such a massive operation. Behind the scenes—or more correctly, behind the chocolate scenery—was this whole mishmash of cameras, enormous cameras set on trollies that moved like the Daleks from the Doctor Who show in the UK, as well as bright lights and cables, like a writhing mass of serpents, and people wearing walkie-talkies and oversized headphones, pointing, hugging clipboards and running everywhere.
There was no audience at this stage. They’d be coming later. But with what looked to be around fifty or so staff in the studio, it felt pretty packed as it was. And hot. How on earth would all that chocolate hold up? Once again, though, I was amazed by how relaxed Georgie was; he just strode around with me, sat as directed and stood up again, without it ever feeling in the least like he was antsy about anything. He was one amazingly cool dude.
The dry run done, we headed back to the green room so we could relax until it was time to tape the show itself.
“Will we meet Oprah beforehand?” I asked Shantel, as we departed.
She shook her head. “No. Oprah doesn’t like to meet her guests—whoever they are—until the minute they join her on the sofa. We like to do it that way so that her first interaction really is her first interaction. It keeps it fresher and more real that way.”
But if we didn’t meet Oprah before we went into the studio, we met just about everyone else there. Despite the sign, there was a steady stream of staff coming to say hi to us, from the lowliest juniors to the Harpo bigwigs—everyone wanted to have their photo and their cuddle, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they’d all been told they weren’t supposed to—but it was absolutely fine by us.
The last thing I had to do before the taping was to go to makeup—something more suited to Christie, to my mind, but as it had been me who’d been in all the previous news coverage, they felt it made more sense to have me talk to Oprah. I felt bad about this, even though it wasn’t my choice—why couldn’t we both sit on that sofa with Oprah? It felt like I’d hogged all the limelight.
But Christie being Christie, she forgave me at once, and my makeup applied now, and the show about to start, they took her off to her seat in the front row. She had to be in place for the whole show, of course, because they needed the seats filled from the start. This was a bummer too, because she’d have preferred to stay with us, but, hey, this was TV, and on TV you did as you were told.
And then I realized I needed to use the bathroom.
For all the time I spend thinking about George and the bathroom (Does he need to go yet? Should I take him out just in case? If we drive here, will he last? Does he need to go before bed?), it’s amazing that at the pretty mature age of forty-four, I can fail to remember to go myself.
In my defense, I decided it was probably nerves, but, even so, there was no denying that I’d be called in a half hour and if I didn’t go now, it would make for a potentially uncomfortable interview. The only trouble was that the green room was like a ghost town. Now that the show had started taping, everyone had suddenly disappeared; they’d told me they’d come back when it was call time. It left me with something of a problem. Dare I leave George in the green room? Would he take off? Would he start complaining, in his singular booming fashion, about being left by his dad in this strange room all alone?
I figured I’d have to leave him; there was no real alternative. Surely the green room was far enough away from the studios that his bark wouldn’t carry right to them? I wasn’t entirely convinced about that, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. So I went.
“George,” I said firmly, as I slipped out the door, “I won’t be long, okay? Don’t get stressed. I’ll be back in just a second.”
The only trouble was that when I returned to the green room I couldn’t see him. No big wet nose came to greet me, no doleful look either—no all-too-familiar expression that said, “Dad, how could you do that? How could you leave me in this strange room all by myself?” There was no mistaking it—as dogs his size can’t hide so easily—George had completely disappeared.
All I could see, when I entered the room a little further, was that the beautiful platter of elegant pastries had been decimated; at least half of them had disappeared along with him. Indeed, as I walked, I felt a squish underfoot. One of them now clung to my shoe.
Panicked, I turned on my heels and went out again. Now that I thought about it, as I’d entered the latch hadn’t clicked. They had those slow-closing doors and perhaps, when I’d left, the door hadn’t been one hundred percent closed. Either that, or someone else had come in while I was absent, and taken George somewhere. But where? They surely wouldn’t have taken him to the studio without me, would they? I checked my watch. Why would they? It wasn’t time yet. Of course, the worst-case scenario, and the one that chilled me most, was that George had gotten out of there all by himself and was now trotting around loose, God only knew where.
I jogged back up the corridor, choosing to head right, on instinct, and peering into open doorways as I went, without success. I was on about my fourth room when, on exiting, I almost smacked headlong into a security guard who’d just come around the corner.
He was a big guy, this fella, a whole foot taller than I am—and I’m tall—and probably double my weight, though I might exaggerate. He looked at me unsmilingly, like I was completely nuts, but with no time for explanations I decided just to smile and edge past him—it was almost showtime, and I’d mislaid the star, after all.
Happily, or unhappily, depending on what he thought I was up to, he followed, and two doors farther down, in another, bigger green room, we eventually caught sight of my disappearing mutt. I was lucky—it was pitch-dark, but just before I gave up, I saw a glint of something white out of the corner of my eye.
George was sprawled on a huge sofa, looking all cool and proprietorial. The only thing missing was a serving wench, feeding him grapes.
The security guy and I herded him back into our green room, where he glanced at the remaining pastries, took a long, loving sniff, then looked at me, his expression saying, “Whatever.”
I thought about scolding George, but decided on a team talk instead. He didn’t ask to be left in a room full of pastries, did he? Nor to be left alone with the irresistible prospect of a slightly open door. I was so glad to hav
e him back, I couldn’t be annoyed with him, and we sat and chilled together till the call finally came. We had five minutes: time to wipe the drool from his chops and check my shoes for any clinging smears of pastry.
But George hadn’t quite finished stressing me yet. As he got up, the action was accompanied by a familiar and air-rattling sound from his rear, followed, as night follows day in these cases, by the inevitable, nose-wrinkling smell. The pastries, I thought. Great.
As I held my nose and fanned the air, I issued one last instruction. “Please, George. Please don’t fart on Oprah.”
CHAPTER 22
And the Winner Is…
As these things, I’m sure, have a habit of doing, the whole show went by in a blur.
It started, as it turned out, with something of a bang. Or, if not a bang, at least a very loud noise.
The deal was that George and I waited just behind the set, while Oprah did an opening piece about George, and introduced the film we’d shot two days before. That began, because the director had thought it would look neat, with the crew arriving at the house and an unseen person ringing the front bell. I would open the door, accompanied by George, and the crew would then follow us both inside.
The key thing, of course, was the doorbell. George had always loved the sound of the doorbell being rung—he still does. He’s a sociable guy, and the sound of the doorbell means visitors, so it worked on him just like the plank and chicken trick did. He heard the doorbell, and he knew it was fun time. And for George, the best way he can show he’s feeling happy about his visitors is to bark—at the top of his lungs.
Cue the bit on the film, right at the top of the segment, when the cameraman rings our front doorbell. And cue George, behind the stage set, invisible to the audience, starting up a bark so incredibly noisy that Christie swears some people near her actually jumped out of their seats, and at least one lady’s hand flew, trembling, to her heart.
But that’s George. He does love to make an entrance.
After that, it really did feel like it was over in a flash. I met Oprah, we chatted and she gave George his Guinness certificates, even if she did look just a little bit nervous about getting too close—this was the first time she’d ever set eyes on him, of course.
We went out back after that, while Christie watched the rest of the show. As shows went, it was pretty incredible. As well as the World’s Tallest Dog, they had the World’s Tallest Teenager and the World’s Fastest Violinist, whose playing blew everyone away. They also had on two artists—an amazingly fast and talented portrait painter, and a guy who created masterpieces using an Etch A Sketch. There was a birdman, who got his kicks from jumping off cliffs, some Russian acrobats and some tech-savvy singers as well. And at no point, as far as I could tell, anyway, when I watched it later, did any of the chocolate start to melt.
By the time we were deposited back in our limo in the late morning, it felt like it had all been a dream—a pretty incredible dream, as dreams go, but definitely no less surreal.
After the show, though, we had more practical matters to attend to. George had pooped in the morning, so that was one issue sorted, but by now we knew he’d definitely need a pee. And outside, to our mingled delight and concern, it had begun to snow—really heavily. As we set off, we could see that the brown-tinged mounds, which were all that remained of what had fallen several days back, were rapidly becoming white and pristine again, as they were blanketed in showers of fresh snowflakes. The sidewalks too, previously salted and cleared and good to walk on, were likewise rapidly turning white.
“We should try and stop somewhere,” I said to Christie. “We passed a park on the way, didn’t we? Maybe we should try that. What d’you think?”
“I think you’re right,” she agreed. “If this snow gets a lot heavier, I’m thinking we’re going to have problems.”
She didn’t know it at the time, but Christie’s words would be prophetic. Right now though, we asked the driver if he’d mind diverting when he could, so that George could get out and do what he had to do.
In the meantime, having had so little time to talk to her properly since the show, I told Christie about George’s last-minute dash for freedom. “Or, at least,” I said, “his dash to find a green room with a better-appointed couch. We obviously spoiled him last night letting him have the master bed. He seems to think only celebrity-style sofas will do. Oh, and perhaps, come to think of it, he may have some toilet issues, after all. He also ate about a dozen of those pastries.”
She winced. “Oh, dear.”
“Exactly.” I fanned a hand in front of my face. “And I’ve already had a brush with the result.”
She wrinkled up her nose but then shook her head. “Too soon.”
“Then it must have been that leftover bit of steak I gave him last night. Either that or he’s getting a case of traveler’s tummy.”
“God,” said Christie, wiping condensation from the car window. “Look at that, hon—it’s coming down in buckets! I can’t remember the last time I saw snow like this. Must be ten years, minimum. What a sight!”
She reached to pet George, who was looking out the opposite window. What he made of all the white stuff, who knew? She turned back to me. “I hope he’s going to be able to go okay in this. You really don’t like this stuff, do you, Georgie boy?”
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “He’ll be absolutely fine. If he’s got to go, he’ll go, won’t he? ’Course he will.”
This turned out to be a fine case of famous last words.
We pulled up a few minutes later at the edge of a big park, and the snow was coming so thick and so fast that we could hardly see the outlines of the trees. And it felt every bit as snowy and wintry as it looked. As I opened the door, the cold air literally flew into our faces, and the snow with it—a great swirl of it came in. It felt almost as if someone had stood there with a pail of it and lobbed it right at us just for fun.
“Come on, boy,” I said, having clambered out, head down, onto the sidewalk, and pulling encouragingly on George’s leash.
It took about two seconds for George, who’d normally be bounding out behind me, to decide that he wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, he sat and looked at me as if I was crazy. I managed to get his front legs out and onto the curb—having caught him off guard—but after that, well there was no way our dog was going anywhere. I could do what I pleased, but he was definitely not coming. Would I perhaps like to try and make him? Good luck.
Christie stifled a giggle as she sat and watched this tableau. “You know, hon,” she said, finally, after five fruitless minutes. “You have to practice what you preach here. He’s going nowhere.”
She was right. I’d said it so much she was probably sick of hearing it: you can’t make two hundred and forty-five pounds of dog do anything he doesn’t want to do.
I climbed back into the limo and George rearranged himself again, plopping his chin down on his front legs and sighing, then giving me a disgruntled sort of look.
“You’re right,” I said, through teeth that wouldn’t work right for chattering. “We’ll just have to try again later, I guess.”
“I guess,” said Christie, ducking to avoid a shower as I shook the snow off. “Fingers crossed, it eases up a bit.”
Some hope…
In fact, the snow didn’t ease up at all; it just got heavier and heavier. By early evening, with just an hour before we had to leave for the airport, we figured we were waiting for an “ease up” that simply wasn’t going to happen, so we wrapped up as warmly as we could against the bitter cold and ventured back onto the streets to try again.
They’d shoveled the sidewalks, which was a relief to us both, but unless we let George go on the sidewalk, he’d have to cross huge, growing mounds of new snow to get anywhere suitable to use. And every minute that passed the situation got worse. The snowflakes were coming down hard and fast now, falling in fluffy discs the size of quarters, backlit golden by the streetlamps. But while Christie
and I were loving the prettiness of the scenery, this was also the last straw of a long and tiring day—George was not happy about being out in this at all. He didn’t seem to have the first idea what to make of it. All he knew was that he really didn’t like it. This stuff came down, it stuck to him, it made him shiver, it felt icy and, worse, it was all over the ground beneath his paws too—something he didn’t like one little bit.
“Like water, only worse,” laughed Christie, as we watched his reaction. Just as he did when he was a puppy by our pool, he was hopping around, alternately picking up his paws, looking not so much like a dog but a show pony—a show pony performing dressage, perhaps, or one of those prancing horses you used to see at the circus.
You could tell by his expression that he was seriously Not Amused. And by his demeanor that there was NO WAY he was going to use the bathroom—not now that the bathroom had become an outpost of the Arctic. This was a dog who’d been born in Oregon but raised in Arizona, after all.
“We need to find somewhere dry for him,” I told Christie as we walked down the street. We had both put on an extra layer of clothing since earlier, but it still felt like the frosty air was seeping through it.
She stopped and waved a gloved hand around. “Yeah, but where, exactly? Look around you. There must be six inches of snow now, at least!”
“There must be a park somewhere—”
“Which will be covered in snow too—this is Chicago.”
I grinned. “But I’m guessing they still have dogs here.”
“Who are used to snow, honey.”
“But there’ll be somewhere.”
That somewhere was proving to be pretty elusive. We walked the length of one block, and then we walked another, with George getting more and more preturbed as we did so. We walked so far that I wasn’t altogether sure where we were now, but finally we reached a big intersection.
