Creakle Crackle

By late afternoon Tuesday we get to Bellingham, a lovely spot where pine covered hills meet the sea and where we will spend the night. For the moment, however, we stammer on to Blaine-0n-Border, where I unload our cargo, before doubling back to Bellingham. I am curious to see if the truck will run better lighter. Alas, it doesn't.

Aside from Fips's brief piss-about at Tillicum's gas station, the poor, poor doggies have been cooped up inside the truck all day. So I called ahead to make a Motel 6 reservation before pulling over at a rest stop to let the pups stretch their legs. Fortune smiles briefly as Rosco finds a bone.

Back at the Motel I collapse onto the bed and sink into the imbecility of America's Public Awareness Program. Fips staring and Rosco pouncing, the dogs want up too and so I lift them onto the bed. Rosco wrestles with a pillow and Fips hugs my side.

I think travelling is traumatic for doggies. They certainly seem to get excited by the prospect of going somewhere and sniffing something new. But this excitement is no different from their friskiness on ordinary day-to-day outings to any place that is a different place. Fips scrambling to jump out of the car and Rosco's scurried sniff and piss at the base of trees is the same here as at home. I suspect that, fundamentally, travel is anxiety-laden for dogs. The security of familiar surroundings lost, I become -- ever more so -- their sole center.

It is for this reason that I do not like to have them on the bed. For, the moment I turn my back and go fetch something from the truck, one or the other dog will take a flying leap after me, which is exactly what happened this evening, to my distress. Such canine gymnastics were of little concern when the pups were younger -- no longer, given Fip's weak haunchies or after Rosco's injury three years ago when he fell from the Jeep.

To complicate matters, Rosco gets up (or will jump off) twice a night to go wee. So, ever since our trip to Mexico, I've used a rope leash to tie the dogs to my wrists to keep them from taking night-time leaps. This means that I have to get up twice a night to walk Rosco (and sometimes Fips) around a lovely moonlit parking lot. Tonight, I am not up for that; so, before sinking into sleep, I put Rosco down and a tarp on the floor. And at last, to sleep....

Creakle, creakle, crackle, creakle

?

Crackle, crackle, creackle, crackle

?

Creakle, creakle, crackle, creakle

What the devil? I look down and Rosco is padding back and forth on the tarp making as much noise as he can. He knows he has succeeded in waking me and stands nose to door. Hoping that Fips stays asleep, I get up throw on my pants and let Rosco out. He runs across the lot and unloads on a bush and then runs back to the room. He's such a sweetheart. Back inside I lift him back onto the bed.

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