There are benefits to owning a rabid Rottweiler. There’s a reason a recovering people pleaser like me chooses a mate who couldn’t give two fucks about displeasing others, who fears confrontation not one whit.

Walt and I went to Mallorca over the weekend to visit our daughter and her family. This meant catching a pre-dawn flight with Ryan Air—best known for their lack of amenities, like free oxygen and tap water—surrounded by a raucous herd of drunks.

For whatever reason, Walt booked a rental through OK cars. Clearly, he had no idea just how far off the beaten path we’d have to go to pick up our vehicle.

We locate the designated transport spot outside the terminal, wait for the minivan to appear, then stand by as the surly driver loads everyone’s suitcases into the back before hauling all 95 of us to OK’s locale, somewhere off the coast of Africa.

When we finally pull into the parking lot, we’re surprised to find a mass of people milling about. Some folks drink vending machine coffee; others share candy bars with their friends. A family of four have unpacked their suitcase and are putting on sunhats. I’ve never bought rock concert tickets before, but I’ve always imagined this very look of resignation, this willingness to wait it out on the sidewalk come hell or high water, even if it takes all night, for the chance to see Mick Jagger or Beyonce on stage.

Walt, of course, doesn’t notice the line winding out the back of the building, disorganized as it is. He leaps out of the van, tells me to grab the bags, and high-tails it inside to beat the other 93 passengers we’ve just spent the last hour with.

I stand on the patio people watching while Walt navigates the rental process. It’s a lovely day. I identify the German tourists, the mainland Spaniards, the Irish, the British, the occasional American. I watch people buy snack foods from the row of vending machines, judge them for their choices.

At the half-hour mark, I begin to feel nervous. Walt will wait only so long before he decompensates. He’s already frustrated and tired, so instinctively I know he’s reached that Old Yeller point. I know how he gets, which is why I keep my distance, pretend I’ve never seen him before, maintain my happy bubble with a mantra. His lip curls, he starts ramping it up, making it clear to everyone within a mile radius that he’s not best pleased, that somebody better do something to rectify the untenable situation PDQ or they’ll be really, really sorry. I’m pretty sure these are all intimidation tricks he learned as a criminal defense attorney.

Sometimes his snorting and ground pawing work. People want to tamp down the tension so they’ll throw shit his way to get him to simmer down and leave. Sometimes his reaction draws a crowd of employees that couldn’t give a shit, as is the current case, and they’ll stand back and enjoy the show, point at him, giggle. So. Not. Good.

He waves me in when he spots me sneaking a peak from around the corner. I slink to his side like a dog caught up on the counter eating the holiday turkey. “We’re going straight to Hertz or to Avis if they don’t call my number, like, in 15 seconds.” I look at his deli ticket. It reads 62. The leaderboard reads “serving 54”. We traveled through a maze of industrial buildings, windmills, olive groves, sheep pastures. God knows where we are. “I’m serious. We’ll walk right on out of here if I’m not immediately served.”

This is where I take a seat, fold my hands in my lap, and look docile. A trick I learned growing up in an alcoholic household.

Then, miraculously, they call Walt’s number. Walt holds the ticket up as he approaches the counter. He points at it, reads it very slowly. “Expected wait time: 28 minutes. Do you know how long you’ve had me waiting here? One hour and 48 minutes.” The rental agent—a young woman with a bored expression—yawns. The agent beside her laughs out loud. I can see the vein in Walt’s neck pulse.

The agent takes Walt’s paperwork, his credit card, and fills out her forms in triplicate. Runs them back and forth through the copy machine, the carwash, the microwave oven. “You’ll be paying us for a full tank of gas,” she says when she returns to the desk. “So you can bring the car back empty.”

But she doesn’t know whom she’s dealing with. Walt pulls out his i-phone, opens the contract he signed beforehand. “No,” he says, enunciating the word as though it has three syllables. He knows we’re going to drive all of 10 miles, so no way this proposed deal is in our favor.  “That’s not what my contract says.” He shows it to her. “I’ll bring the car back full.” She tries to argue with him, to say that that’s just how things are done at OK, but he isn’t having her shit. After a pregnant pause, Walt staring her down like Charles Manson, she relents.

Now the insurance, which is always how rental companies screw you over. “I see you have insurance,” she says, “but we’ll have to charge you an additional 100 Euros for incidentals your company won’t cover.”

Walt is ready for her. “Nooooooo. I’ve got full coverage, and it says it right here on my contract.” Again, she makes an attempt to explain the “normal procedure.” He expands the picture of the contract, zooms in on the pertinent sentence in 64-point font. Helen Keller could read it. Again, she tries to argue but to no avail.

“Well, we need to put 900 euros on your credit card in case you have an accident.” She looks at Walt, folds her arms across her chest. She must figure that eventually, she’ll wear him down. Hahaha.

“Noooooo. My contract says 400 euros. You can’t play that game with me.”

She gives up without an argument. Eventually, she turns over the keys with a whole host of instructions that will ensure we sacrifice another hour or two of our precious day. The energy radiating off of Walt could power a nuclear submarine.  I trot behind, giving him wide berth.

Out in the parking lot, we meet another American. She’s shaking her head, nearly crying. “I don’t know how it happened. But I’m convinced I just gave away $400 that I didn’t need to. I just couldn’t argue anymore. I’m not sure what I should do.”

And that’s why I say that there are benefits to owning a rabid Rottweiler, particularly if you’re a people pleaser.