Traveling with dogs that have a sense of humor is not always easy and can be totally exasperating. If I’m not one step ahead of them with my own sense of humor, things can turn sour in an instant. They are confused, wondering what the hell happened to their couch, their bed, their deck and Katie Jean Circle. All eyes staring at me with a “when are we going home” look. The rules as they know them are currently on hold as they try and find their way on a journey that keeps changing—a car ride for 8 days, resting for 5 days in Arizona, 3 more days in the car, a guest room in Baja for a week, and now an RV on the beach. Before they return home they will spend a month on the Oregon coast and have another 4,000 mile car ride. No wonder they are confused! Dogs are routine oriented and mine are no different, but living with a wanderlust spirit is unpredictable and flexibility is the key. I give them lots of slack but nevertheless, it’s a job trying to stay ahead of them. Here are just a few ‘laughables’ in the life of a blonde wanderlust with her 5 cocker spaniels on the road.
Brody quickly learned how to step on the electric window button in the backseat and rolls his window down at will, thinking it’s all pretty cool. That is, until he steps on the electric door lock when I’m not in the car. Brody you need to learn to unlock the car too!
He's our surfer boy, always ready for a swim in the waves chasing his orange tennis ball.
Guinness took off running (Yes, running!) when I let him out for a walk-about at a self-made rest area. I struggled with my post-op knee to catch him; it was his way of saying: ‘Get me the hell out of this car’ after more than twelve hours.
RockDog became chicken little again opening the oven door in the RV in hopes of once again dining on succulent poultry. He has been rewarded several times with chicken from the oven and has been the pack hero. But today, he had to settle for an empty oven with only the trash can on top the stove—put there to be out of reach of the blonde mop-top called Anne, aka AnnBanan. The find wasn’t much for all his effort—just an empty yogurt container from breakfast.
And the mischievous one, the one that really keeps me on my toes, the one that jumps tall buildings for a crumb has been up to her tricks as usual. So far AnnBanan has escaped twice, had three diarrhea blowouts in the backseat, eaten a month’s supply of homeopathic pellets for Guinness, dumped Starbucks coffee in my car and drank it—twice, followed her nose and attempted to break into the glove box for a piece of garlic chicken pizza and a breakfast cookie. I’m proud to say she was unsuccessful.
Last night she jumped out of the car before her leash was snapped, me grabbing at and missing her, swearing, and chasing her ass around the RV park—after having a few margaritas. It was not pretty. Oh, and let’s not forget the can of Pringles that she inhaled while I was pumping gas. And the kibble she pulled off the counter in the motel room while I was loading the car, and all four dogs were chowing down. This obviously relates to the poop issues on the road.
And there was the Travelodge in Page, Arizona where she had the coffee condiments immediately pulled to the floor—opening up the sugar and the creamer and gobbling it up in a nanosecond. My favorite man’s purse, the one given to me by my London travel mate, chewed to bits all because I left a treat in the bottom and she smelled it. My bad for leaving it within her reach. She is relentless, marching to her own drum with a cocked blonde mop-top wearing that look, the one that says it all—Who Me? Or, Whaaat?
And then there is Bunny, Sweet Little BunBun—who does nothing wrong . . . not ever.
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