Incident at the back of a car

Imagine trying to wrestle a small steer into the back of a Volvo station wagon. A soft, furry, smallish steer. There I was, trying to lift Daisy into the back of the car and she would have nothing of it.

She pushed against the bumper with one paw, against the car floor with another. She wiggled and made herself very heavy. One hundred thirty-five pounds heavy. When she finally decided to give in and jump, I lost control and she lost balance. Quickly I reached down in an effort to soften the fall, managing to cradle her rear about an inch above the cement floor. I let her stand. She tried to run. I heaved her up again, front paws first, then with a deep breath, up with the back. She wiggled and resisted with all her might. After I accidentally pinched her skin in a second near fall, she yelped piteously and got in.

No, Daisy does not like to be left alone. The ol' car in the garage trick worked a couple of times. She'd jump in eagerly, we'd close up the rear door and sneak quietly away. Now she might head toward the car with pleasure, but with a glance around the vicinity she quickly sizes things up. She makes an abrupt U-turn and tries to make a break for freedom.

I was about to be late for an assignment, so I opened the car windows, propped open the doors, and opened the garage a little so air could flow through. A gate behind the back seat would keep Daisy from slipping out and getting into trouble.

Usually we just take her. But I was worried about the heat over the hill where the fog had lifted. I didn't want to leave her in a scary parking lot or on an urban street. I knew she would be safer at home, but Daisy evidently did not.

After the yelp, I felt terrible. I gave Daisy a hug and a bite of canned salmon for consolation. Then I shut the door. But I worried. Daisy seems able to escape anything. And I wouldn't have hurt her intentionally for the world.