Canine Collections

(Reposted from a previously published diary.)

I was visiting this morning with one of the bank’s young loan collectors. Like many collectors, this fellow accepted his position only as a springboard to a more gratifying and rewarding job. Having spent my share of time as a loan collector myself, I was able to empathize, and we soon began to swap collection stories.

One of my more humorous experiences occurred while I was working for a finance company in Oklahoma City. Finance companies are a great training ground for consumer lenders as their training programs involve every aspect of lending and their accepted methodology is “trial by fire.” One of the techniques of this training methodology was to assign the trainees a group of accounts that needed collection work. Most of the time, the collection efforts were comprised of endless hours of telephone calls, but every few days, we would gather up accounts that required personal visits. On this particular day, I was teamed up with another trainee by the name of Bill.

Bill was in his early twenties, like myself. As much as I was cool, cautious, and diplomatic, Bill was spontaneous, impulsive, and utterly hilarious. We made a great team. Anyway, we had been out knocking on doors for a couple of hours when we came to an account that we had both worked. The loan had been made to a young, single guy for the purchase of a satellite dish. For those youngsters out there, in the eighties, these things were springing up like huge, ugly mushrooms in yards across America. Replaced by pizza-sized, eave-hung platters, these things are now as archaic as an eight-track tape, but in their day, they were THE sign of high tech. Believe it or not, we actually had occasion to repossess a few of these beasts, but the goal to a door visit was to walk away with a payment, not the collateral. So, it was with the intent of getting a payment that Bill and I set out to find the rural address.

I was driving, and Bill was giving directions as we pulled up the long, dirt lane, marked only by a beat-up, crudely personalized metal, mailbox. I slipped the car in park at the end of the road. An old, weathered mobile home sat before us. A big, black dog walked out from under the trailer. Only a few sections of bent metal skirting remained, but shadows and long weeds concealed the underside of the house. I looked at Bill.

“You think this is it?” I asked him. I desperately wanted to turn around.

“It’s gotta be the place,” he said. “It’s his name on the mailbox and look at what is in the front yard.” I looked at the new satellite dish, mounted like a trophy just twenty paces from the trailer. I rolled my eyes in Bill’s direction.

“So, what about the dog?” I asked.

“Do you see a chain?”

“No.”

“Can you tell what kind of dog it is?”

“A big one.”

“He doesn’t look mean.”

“But does he look hungry?” I asked with my normal, controlled caution. Bill looked at me and chuckled, and then opened the door.

“Come on,” he said. “He can’t be too mean. He hasn’t even barked at us.” I got out of the car and walked in mock confidence toward the front door. Bill joined me as we both watched to make sure our friendly Fido stayed in his place.

“You want to knock on this one?” I asked Bill as we reached the bottom of the stepped porch.

“No, you go for it. I had the last one.”

“Okay, but watch the dog.” I knocked on the door and rehearsed my speech as I waited. An old gentleman pulled the door open and stared at me. His thinning, gray hair was pushed around in random directions on his head. His face was deeply etched and beard stubble covered his leathery skin.

“Hello, sir,” I said with a smile. “Does Tommy Roe live here?” The old man squinted as he looked down at Bill and then back to me.

“Who wants to know?” he asked. The old man tossed a handful of shelled peanuts into his mouth and leaned against the doorframe to await an answer. I pulled a business card from my shirt pocket.

“Excuse me,” I said, maintaining my friendly grin. “I’m D.B. Sweet, and this is my associate, Bill Thermon. We just wanted to visit with Tommy for a minute.” I knew the credit privacy laws and wanted to steer the conversation away from the purpose of the visit. “Are you Tommy’s father?” The old man looked at the card, ignoring my question. I heard Bill shuffle his feet, but I maintained my fake smile.

“USA Credit?” the old man said without looking up. “You two boys bill collectors?” It was at this point that I realized this man had no intention of being cooperative. My fear was that he had no intention of even being friendly.

“We just wanted to chat with Tommy for a minute,” I repeated. The old man looked up and his eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he stepped out on the landing, and I took a step to the side. I glanced down at Bill and saw his eyes were glued on our friendly Fido who was standing near the edge of the trailer. I turned back around to see the old man holding his hand up and looking to the opposite end of the trailer.

“Jim,… Bob!” he shouted. I turned and looked with alarm at another dog, that could have been Fido’s twin, running from the other end of the trailer. I took a step down, and Bill took a step up, so that we were side by side on the steps as both dogs ran toward us. They stopped just to the side of the steps and looked past us toward the old man. I turned and watched as the old man grinned. Small bits of chewed peanuts clung to his yellowed teeth. His words seemed to slow as he called out to the dogs. “Jim, Bob, how'd you boys like some leg?” As both dogs began to growl, all I could think of was how my predicament reminded me of the “squeal like a pig” scene in “Deliverance.” The only trouble was that I was not Burt Reynolds, and I did not have a crossbow. In all my years, I had been able to talk myself out of trouble, so I instinctively tried the only response I could think of.

“Those are great looking dogs. What breed are they?” I asked, amazing myself at being able to maintain my composure.

“Pit bulls,” he answered, looking bewildered by my question. “They hate bill collectors.”

“Oh,” I said. “I can’t stand them myself.” The dogs stopped growling, and I stepped backwards down the stairs with Bill glued to my side. “If you see Tommy, can you tell him D.B. stopped by?” The old man remained by his door, looking at us as if we had just asked him to explain quantum physics. I prayed and tried to still my urge to run as we walked casually toward the car. I turned back to see both dog’s heads cock to the side. “Have a good day, now,” I added, as I opened the door and slipped safely inside the car. Bill almost shut his foot in the door as I forced a shaking key into the ignition.

The car fishtailed onto the main road as I pushed the gas pedal to the floor. Bill screamed and hit the dash with his fist. He turned to me with wide eyes.

“Do you know how close we came to being dog food?” he asked. I took a deep breath and wiped my brow with the back of my hand.

“Yeah, I know. What do we do now?”

“Find a bathroom,” Bill answered.

As I told the story of Jim and Bob, the young collector sat and listened. After I had finished, he raised his eyebrows.

“So, what did you learn?” he asked with genuine curiosity. I paused.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“First I learned I wanted to find a new job. Second, I learned that collecting and full bladders do not mix.”