by Dave Nasser
The snow was beginning to settle on the roads, and George, we could tell, was becoming desperate. He was getting real antsy, sniffing everything, looking all around him, shuffling his paws so his front and back legs were close together. He needed the bathroom pretty badly. “Let’s go this way,” Christie suggested. “Maybe there’s a—”
“No, wait!” I pointed. “How about that building over there?”
“Where? Which one?” She followed the direction of my outstretched finger, one hand clamped tightly around the scarf at her neck. With the wind whipping around the corner, it felt fiendishly cold now. The tip of her nose, I noticed, had grown pink. “That place?” she asked. We both peered to make out the building in the darkness, our vision obscured by the thickly falling flakes.
I nodded. “It’s some sort of community hall, isn’t it? Or, wait. Is it a church?”
I looked up, blinking the snow from my eyes. There was a neon-lit white crucifix high on the wall of it, and, more importantly, for our purposes, it seemed to have an area out in front of the building that, strangely, the snow hadn’t settled on. We started across the intersection, which was empty of cars anyway, and as we got closer you could see the church had some sort of forecourt, an area of which was raised up, and looked like it might have been a garden. Only it wasn’t, of course. This was Chicago in February. It would be a few months yet before anything would be growing there. The building was mostly dark; there was just one light burning inside, coming from a big window set pretty high in the wall.
“How weird,” commented Christie, as we reached the other sidewalk. “All this snow around us, and none on there at all.”
It was weird. The area was uncovered, so it made no sense. And what was it doing here anyway? It was a small rectangular area, raised about six inches above the forecourt, and it seemed to have no obvious purpose. “That’s wood chips covering it, isn’t it?” said Christie, as we approached it.
I nodded. “Looks like it. And maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s warm—you know, like mulch around a plant keeps the heat in. Maybe that’s why the snow isn’t sticking to it.”
“What d’you think it is? Some sort of remembrance garden, or something?” We both paused then, to contemplate the potential impropriety of having George use a remembrance garden for a bathroom. Hmm. “Oh—I know!” said Christie suddenly. “Maybe it’s left over from the holidays. Maybe they had a crib and stuff set up here—a nativity scene. I’ll bet that’s it. I’ll bet that’s what it is—hey!”
The “hey!” was because George had yanked violently on the end of the leash. He had no time to join in debates about religion right now.
It didn’t matter whether it was a nativity, a garden or a gift sent from heaven. To George it was just a bathroom, and, boy, did he need the bathroom. He was already beginning to squat, relief written right across his face, before Christie had stumbled behind him up the steps.
“D’you think it’s okay for him to—” Christie had just begun to say, when behind us we heard a sudden, and very loud, banging. We both jumped. And then swiveled around. There was a shadowy face in the high window, and silhouetted in front of him was the unmistakable vision of an arm, and a fist, rapping furiously on the glass.
“Hey!” we heard him yelling at us. “Hey, you out there!”
Christie and I exchanged glances. The temptation to make a run for it was powerful. Even at this distance, he looked seriously pissed off, and he sounded it, for sure. He’d also left the window now, so presumably he was coming out. But George, who was still peeing, was in no position, for the moment, to go anywhere.
Next thing, and it seemed he’d hardly have had the time to get down to us, we could hear the distinctive sound of a bunch of bolts being drawn back from behind the church’s heavy wooden doors.
“Hey!” we could hear him yell again, even before the doors opened. And something else, possibly something unrepeatable.
“Obviously not a man of the cloth,” said Christie. “C’mon, honey!” she added, giving a firm tug to George’s leash.
At that moment, one of the huge church doors opened with a creak, and a man—a very angry one, the caretaker I imagined—was silhouetted, gesticulating, in the entrance.
“Hey!” he said again, pointing in our general direction. “You people letting that mutt go to the bathroom on my ground!”
He emerged from the doorway, looking murderous and big, just as George had finished and stood up again. The man was approaching now, both arms waving furiously. It was very dark; there was no moon, so he couldn’t really see. And because George, like many large dogs, always squatted to pee, it was obvious that he thought we had allowed George on his “ground” to leave the church a slightly bigger offering. But looking at him, it felt like there was little point in standing around in the freezing cold debating the issue. Besides, George was done, and no harm had been done either.
“Come on,” I said to Christie. “Let’s go!”
We headed off at a jog, the three of us, back down the snowy sidewalk. George, either traumatized, or thrilled by this unexpected bit of exercise (we thought the latter), had clearly forgotten he didn’t like all the white stuff underfoot, and was bounding along beside us, tail thumping happily, ears flapping. I glanced back as we approached the corner. The man was running after us.
“What the hell?!” I panted to Christie. “This guy’s seriously pissed at us!”
We ran on, for another fifty yards or so along the sidewalk, stopping only when we reached another intersection, a block along, to catch our breath and see if we’d outgunned him. By now, Christie was laughing so much she was running out of breath, and a little steam had begun to rise from Georgie’s flanks. But now that his bladder was empty, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. His barking—presumably out of pure euphoria—boomed out like cannons in the heavy silence.
I turned around, by now prepared to try and reason with the man, to point out that our “mutt” had not gone to the bathroom on his “ground,” merely peed, which (I was rehearsing my speech as I thought this) I really didn’t think God would strike him down for. But the man had stopped. He’d stopped a good forty feet back, and was just standing, and you could see he was squinting a little—squeezing his eyes up to try and make out exactly what he was seeing through the snow.
“He’s just realized,” said Christie, her words making little white clouds in front of her. “We’re standing under this streetlamp, aren’t we?” she panted. “So he can see us. And I think he’s only just seen George properly. You know—for the first time. It was pretty dark by that church, wasn’t it? That’s why he’s stopped. I’ll bet that’s why he’s stopped.”
He couldn’t have heard her, but as she spoke, we watched the man take a couple of steps backward, then turn on his heels and jog back toward the church. His parting gesture was nothing more threatening than a scowl.
Christie and I laughed, though not so loudly that he’d hear us and get angry again. He’d clearly decided that some owners, or, rather, some dogs—very big ones—possibly weren’t worth having a big blowout argument with. Georgie, unimpressed, snorted out some air and once again started hopping: he’d remembered that he didn’t like this snow one little bit.
“I think you’re right, hon,” I said to Christie. “I think you’re actually right. How great is that?” I rubbed my gloved hand over George’s head and back. “How great is that, Georg-eee, being the world’s tallest dog?”
“The world’s tallest dog, ever. Don’t forget that part,” said Christie. She slipped her hand in mine and we turned to head back. “The world’s tallest dog, ever, who’s been on Oprah Winfrey’s ‘That’s Incredible!’”
“The world’s tallest dog, ever, who’s been on Oprah Winfrey’s ‘That’s Incredible!’ and who spent last night in the master bed in the best suite in the whole of the Omni Hotel.”
“The best suite in the whole of Chicago,” added Christie. “Because he’s a celebrated superstar now.” Geor
ge huffed. “With the most in-demand paw-tographs on eBay—just you wait. Hey,” she said, snuggling in a little closer. I let go of her hand and put my arm around her instead. “You think Annabel’s giving your mom and pop all kinds of grief?”
“I don’t doubt it,” I answered. “Isn’t that kind of in the job description?” Christie’s nose was now bright red. It was very chilly. She looked beautiful, I thought—really beautiful. “We’ll call them up,” I added, squeezing her shoulder firmly, remembering, as if either of us needed to be reminded, that this was the first time we’d ever been parted overnight from our little girl. “We’ll call them just as soon as we’re back at the hotel,” I said. “To see how she’s doing, and tell them we’ll be home real soon—and all about our trip. What an amazing day! What d’you say, Giant Georgeee? What a day, eh?”
George had no answer, because George couldn’t talk, which was probably a plus, because one thing was for sure: George had developed a bit of a taste for superstardom, and we didn’t want him getting too full of himself. We didn’t want him changing. Hell, no.
After all, and it had never seemed so clear to me as that night, he might be an entry in Guinness World Records, have a fan club, a website, a whole bunch of followers around the world; he might be unique, and a record-breaker and very, very famous; but the only thing that mattered was that he was part of our family—always had been, always would be. That was really what he was.
It was a good feeling for me too, being a part of my little family—the best feeling ever, in fact.
We reached the final intersection. We were almost back at the hotel now. I kissed my wife, petted my dog.
Time to go home.
Epilogue
Since being crowned the Guinness World Records’ Tallest Living Dog, and Tallest Dog Ever, George has had a real taste of what it’s like to be globally famous. On the day of our appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show, all the international news wires were on fire. Word spread very quickly about the new record holder, and news agencies from around the world were hot to get a piece of him.
We were flooded with calls and e-mails over the next couple of days; it seemed just about everybody wanted to know about George now, and the requests for interviews and appearances kept on piling up. Sleep, for those few days, became a bit of a luxury, as Team Giant George—me, Paul and Dana—struggled to keep up with the sheer volume of communication and make sure no query or request was left unanswered.
And the requests kept right on coming. All the big network news shows wanted to feature Giant George, and all the entertainment shows wanted him too—many of them dispatching crews to come to Tucson to meet us right away. It didn’t stop at the Atlantic or Pacific either: TV stations from all over the world wanted to meet George, but flying him internationally was out of the question, so they flew their people into Tucson instead. In those early weeks I think we entertained television and news crews from some half a dozen different countries around the planet, including Japan, Brazil and Korea, as well as Germany, Spain and Singapore.
But for all the excitement of George’s newfound media celebrity, and the thrill of seeing him on film, in news coverage and in print, it was the incredible fans that amazed us the most, and who continue to blow us away today. There’s no getting away from it, dog lovers really are a great bunch of people. It doesn’t matter where in the world they live—and Giant George fans seem to live almost everywhere—they are one great big worldwide community. George’s YouTube videos had had over 2.5 million hits by summer 2011; by any yardstick, that’s an awful lot of viewers. He also has over 75,000 fans on Facebook, 2,500 on Twitter, and the traffic on his website—incredibly—is still growing; he now sees around 5,000 visitors a day.
And these people don’t just visit to say hi to George, either. They talk to each other too; they share their stories and anecdotes, post pictures, swap tips and tell their fellow fans about their own beloved pets. They also respond to all the updates we try to post daily—it’s a big job for the team to keep up with them all!
But George, being a superstar, doesn’t have to worry about logistics. Why should he? Heck, he has staff to do all that stuff, doesn’t he? It sure feels like it. We’re all of us agreed on one thing: we have no time, these days, for any other kind of hobby. Just keeping up with everything we need to keep up with—from running the media to shipping merchandise, to dealing with paperwork, to answering the thousands of e-mails—occupies more “happy hours” than we ever imagined.
I’m still busy remodeling houses and have finally finished work on ours now. Christie works way too hard, looking after her many clients, and still manages to be the best mom a little girl could ever wish for. Our little girl, incidentally, is doing great, which doesn’t mean she’s different from any other toddler—she tests George’s patience on a daily basis. Not surprisingly, since she’s such an adventurous young lady, she sees him as one giant climbing mountain—one she’s determined to conquer. If anyone’s gonna saddle him, Annabel will. And our home has become even busier as our son, Luke, arrived in May 2011.
As for George himself, well, a typical day goes something like this: get up, have the staff attend to his toilette and pedicure, breakfast on the patio, sign a few pawtographs, wait for the limo to take him off somewhere swanky for lunch with friends…
No, of course it doesn’t. Our Georgie is a dog! So he tends to spend his days doing what dogs like doing best: he eats, plays and sleeps (oh, and he still does those poops!), and that’s pretty much all he wants to do.
Of course, he still enjoys plenty of public appearances too. Now that we’ve started figuring out ways he can use his fame to give something back to the community, he’s busy with a pretty packed schedule. He visits all sorts of places, from schools and play centers to nursing homes—anywhere where being himself is all that’s required. Oh, and he’s even strutted his stuff on the catwalk, with his mom, for a big charity fashion show fundraiser. Naturally, being George, he loves every single moment, especially when he gets to have his photograph taken, and even more when he gets to have his ears scratched.
But his appearance on Oprah wasn’t the last time George flew across America. In September 2010, we got another call from Guinness, and a question: would the World’s Tallest Dog like to meet the World’s Smallest Dog? They were about to launch the 2011 version of their iconic records book, and wanted these two to provide the “face” of the launch.
The World’s Smallest Dog—Boo Boo—is a real doggie diva. She’s a diminutive four-inch-high long-haired Chihuahua, and she was crowned back in 2007. She’s also a real pro, another star performer, and we knew she and George would get along famously. Once again, we were off on a high-altitude adventure—only this time we went to New York! And, happily, this time, it being fall, it wasn’t snowing. We had an incredible trip; George was lucky enough to meet Regis and Kelly, and he appeared on several national morning shows as a feature story. George found the whole experience a blast—but he stays humble despite his time in front of the cameras!
So all in all, it’s a dog’s life, and we’re so lucky to share it. Not with the “Tallest Dog in the World Ever”—though that’s great—but with our Georgie, who, first and last, is our much-cherished pet. And we’re lucky too that one of the calls that came in after Guinness was from a publisher—first a publisher from London, and then one from New York, and they had a great idea. Would we like to tell the world a little more about our amazing dog?
Hell, yes! So here it is. Thanks for reading.
Dave and Christie x
P.S. If you want to know more about what Giant George is up to, you can find him in the following places:
e-mail: [email protected]
www.giantgeorge.com
www.facebook.com/giantgeorge
www.twitter.com/giantgeorgeaz
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Kerri Sharp at Simon & Schuster for taking on this project in the UK and Karen Murgolo at Grand Central for publi
shing the US edition. Also a huge thanks goes to Paul O’Rourke and Dana Murray, who make up Team Giant George, for all their efforts on this book.
About the Author
DAVE NASSER has a degree in Economics and a Master’s in Public Administration. He renovates houses and sells real estate in Tucson (www.TucsonRealEstateSales.com), where he lives with wife, Christie, two young children, and, of course, Giant George.
GIANT GEORGE is a beloved pet who lives in Tucson with Dave Nasser and his family. At almost four feet tall and seven feet long, he has been named “The Tallest Dog in the World Ever” by Guinness World Records. He has appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show, LIVE! with Regis & Kelly, and has his own global fan club.
Christie lying on the floor with GG in our apartment in Tucson. He was around eight weeks old at the time.
Christie sitting on the couch with GG when he was a puppy (about five months)—but growing fast!
GG goofing around in the new house.
Christie standing GG on his hind legs. He was still a puppy, about eight months old.
GG as a puppy in Huntington Beach, California. Notice the knots at his wrists. This is bone that is waiting to grow longer.
GG enjoying his first birthday.
This growing sure does take it out of you!
With three other Great Danes at the dog park; taken when GG was about two years old.
He may be big, but he can still look cute. (Photo © Erin Barnes)
GG doing one of his favorite things—sitting with his dad on the couch. (Photo © Martha Lochert)
