When people asked how we were getting to New Mexico, I responded that we were driving two vehicles--a Honda sedan and a red Ford pick-up, with our shih tzu in the small cab behind the driver's seat. I said it had the makings of a sit-com! The longest distance we had ever traveled with our previous dog, Snowball, was out to Amherst, MA, during which she threw up a good deal of the time. Taking a dog across country in a truck sounded daunting enough, but taking Oreo--an energetic, intense muscle of about 12 pounds, a runner, a ball-catcher--seemed nearly impossible.
Oreo had been quite nervous before our departure because out house was in a state of continual chaos. In the past, he's gotten nervous when we brought out suitcases for overnights or vacations, but this--yard sales, repairmen, painters, bookcases and other furniture disappearing--it was all too disorienting. The only things that kept him calm were walking to the park and running all over our fenced-in backyard in search of a thrown tennis ball. It looked as if puppy claustrophobia was imminent.
But Oreo surprised us. Maybe it was because he knew we were leaving with him rather than whisking him out with household goods. Maybe it was because the back of the truck and the simplicity of motel rooms were a relief after the turmoil at home. In any case, he was nearly an angel. He was a little restless the first night until we realized he liked the comforter on the bed, so we made a nest of it on the floor for him then and every night after that. What surprised us most was that his frenetic energy seemed to have disappeared: as long as he had occasional stops, walks, and cuddles, he seemed completely content.
So, what had worried us about traveling with him turned out to be fine, but we ran into other issues that we hadn't fully expected. Pet-friendly motels abound now--AAA even has a book of them over an inch thick, doorstop size, to consult--and services like BringFido.com and motel websites tell you all you need to know. Policies vary, as do charges, but one policy that seemed unanimous in all the facilities was the "Never leave the dog alone in the room!" rule. Now that's understandable on several levels, not the least of which is that the housekeepers really don't want to wrangle with Robby the Rottweiler while they're trying to make beds and clean bathrooms. Damage to the room is another concern, certainly, and some motels warned of possible eviction if one's dog was unruly. But what that means--keeping constant watch on the dog--is that you never go anywhere with your partner unless the dog comes, too. So, I confess to you here--in the hope that you'll keep our transgression a secret-- that we did indeed leave Oreo alone several times--to eat the continental breakfast (which, by the way, got increasingly white and sweet as we traveled south & west), to visit a friend, to go to a store. We never stayed away long, and we made sure he had his Iams and water, but sometimes--especially since we were driving two cars and spoke infrequently during the day--we just had to make a break for it!
The related problem was that while there are pet-friendly hotels, there are very few pet-friendly restaurants, except for therapy animals. In Charlottesville and along the way through Kentucky, we found outdoor spots at restaurants or on patios, but as we continued west, they became less frequent and in the blazing heat, not too inviting. So we breakfasted and lunched under trees bordering parking lots; fortunately, we had brought our folding chairs. We sat under patio umbrellas at Friendly's and Dairy Queen, the premier ice cream place, it seems, west of the Mississippi; we were invited to sit in a farmer's yard in Indiana, and we got take-out food and brought it into our rooms other times. Oreo had been served water several times at our stops, but at DQ, the young clerk brought him his own Hoodsie-size cup of vanilla soft serve. Unlike many people, he assumes that everyone will love him and they usually do. Perhaps there's a lesson there. Only twice, I think, did we leave him in the room and have dinner out by ourselves.
Even motel-hopping seemed okay with Oreo--maybe it's the sameness of those places with the industrial carpet, the fog of Febreze in the hallways, the standard furniture and linens, and the long corridors. The only hitch was that we discovered that he's afraid of elevators! We first discovered that in Charlottesville where our room was on the third floor, and he balked at getting into the elevator. Every time after that, he would veer away from the elevator doors, dig in his heels, and need to be carried. The first time we thought the source of his fear was the creakiness of the particular elevator--even I was a bit nervous in that one--but wherever we encountered an elevator, he wanted no part of it.
Once we arrived in Albuquerque, he was very content. I think he'd envisioned the rest of his life as one interminable road trip! And funny thing, once he was here and our furniture and other possessions arrived with the familiar smells of home, he settled in and set his sights once again on chasing balls. His favorite spot is at my father-in-law's house, where there's a long, narrow corridor that's perfect for throwing tennis balls. The parks and the mesa are not bad spots either for having a good run.
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