Hello. It’s me!

Here’s the 411 … when it is 109 degrees out and my little feet can be scorched by hot surfaces, something has to give. That something, of course, is Dad driving me to grass to perform my late-afternoon duties.

So I finish browsing my Reader’s Digest and next thing you know Dad is hopping around like a mad man, scratching his ankle. The conversation goes something like this:

Dad: Ow. OW!

Dash: ‘sup dude?

Dad: They’re going into my sock.

Dash: Huh?

Dad: It’s like they’ve created a highway up my leg.

Dash: By “they” do you mean mini-chupacabras?

Dad: Then they split off. Some keep going up my leg, some go down into my sock. OW! Ow. Jesus.

Dash: Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.

Dad: They’re fire ants. This burns!

Dash: I’m outta here.

Dad was being attacked by little nibblers known as fire ants. Or something like a fire ant. It makes for a better story if we take his account at face value, #amirite?

Take a peek.

I mean, who walks around with six sets of two toes?

I’d bite something if I was born like this.

Needless to say we got the heck outta there.

Hello! It’s me.

That’s me, getting ready to board a ferry to head to Arizona last week. There was so much optimism, so much excitement, so much anticipation.

But when you go on these trips, there are guidelines … things to take into consideration.

I enjoy heart-healthy advice as much as the next pup, #amirite?

Turns out area volcanoes heeded the advice as well. No smoking at any of the peaks we passed.

There’s a lot of pressure inside those domes … and we learned that there’s a lot of pressure inside of tires when you drive at a high speed in 115 degree temperatures. Somewhere in the Mojave Desert, we ping’d a CHECK TIRE SYSTEM warning light. Dad checks tire pressure … 43psi … we’re close to poppin’ the tires here! He deflates each time and tries to reset the warning lights … the tires are deflated but the warning lights won’t go off. He grumbles something about non-stop tire and warning light problems. Here’s my response.

I mean, Mom tried to get me to go to the bathroom outside, but it was 115 degrees and the wind was out of the Southwest at 115 miles per hour … not exactly conditions commensurate with a typical tinkling process.

Back in the air-conditioned comfort of a ten year old car with a failing digital tire measurement system, I hunkered down for the remaining 300 miles on our trip to Arizona.

Sometimes, the heat would get to me.

Are we there yet?

I decided I wasn’t thrilled with Arizona after we entered the state and got gas … and while getting gas, I learned it was 122 degrees.

122 degrees.

That’s 12*10 + 2.

That’s sixty degrees warmer than when it is 62 degrees. It’s the same distance away from 62 degrees that 2 degrees is from 62 degrees.

I started to think about what 10 weeks of hot temperatures might mean to me. I decided to not think about it!

With warning lights blaring, we arrived at our home outside of Phoenix … my worries about temperature heights were alleviated … it was a chilly 114 degrees when we arrived.

One thing about the Phoenix area … a dearth of ferns.

But I did chase a gecko across a searing-hot paved surface (#needbootstoprotectmydelicatepads) yesterday, so I am making the adjustment to my new surroundings.

And with that, our trip across the West is over. We’re in our home, now. No more rusted metal threats to evaluate in rural areas.

No more having to use my namesake to cleanse the car.

And certainly no more twelve-hour days sitting in a car.

From here on out, it’s fun in the sun!!

Hello! It’s me.

A quick update … here’s the 411 on the events of today.

Issue #1:  We begin the day with a “low tire pressure” message. After Dad cussed like a drunken sailor for ten or fifteen minutes, a gas station attendant pointed Dad to a Les Schwab Tire center 1.1 miles down the road, where the problem was solved within a half-hour (hint – it was a nail). After getting back in the car, Mom asked Dad how he would behave in the future during stressful situations. I giggled – it’s fun to see Dad humbled, #amirite?

Issue #2: 600 miles later, we pull into Tulare, CA and visit a Best Western (#petfriendly). For some reason, Dad says, and I quote “We’re getting in the lobby before that other car, there might only be one room left.” Dad pulls into a parking spot, runs to the lobby door, and then mysteriously opens the door for the lady in the other car. She waltzes through the door. She asks if there are any rooms available. The staffer says “You are in luck, there is only one room left.” Dad looks at the staffer and says, “Seriously?” The staffer says “Yes.” Dad says “But I just held the door open for that woman.” The woman looks at the staffer and says “I’ll take the room.”

Now, we finally got a room – on our sixth try at a sixth hotel – and that was the last room in the inn as well.

So here is what Dad wants me to ask you.

Quiz Question:  What should Dad have done in this situation? What is a responsible Christian solution to this problem?

(a) Dad should have opened the door for the woman and let the chips fall where they may … even if it meant Dad didn’t get the last room at the hotel.

(b) Dad should have walked into the hotel first (rudely impeding the woman who should have received a gentlemanly introduction into the hotel and thereby received first dibs on the final available room) and taken the room in an effort to “provide” for his family (aka “me”).

(c) Dad should have opened the door for the woman and then after learning that there was only one room left Dad should have thrown a fit and acted like a baby in an effort to acquire the room for his family, much like he did earlier this morning when greeted with a flat tire.

(d) Dad and Mom should have split a six-pack of Schlitz and then slept overnight in the car.

Leave your choice in the comments section.

Hello! It’s me!

If “up the tree to chase the squirrel” is heading south, then I am all for heading south.

So yesterday Mom says, “Come on little buddy, we’re headed south.” We leave our house … and then I sense that because movers were here the past two days taking our furniture and possessions I might be at risk of not revisiting my home again.

Mom says “no worries”.

We visit one of Mom’s friends. Let’s just say I wasn’t thrilled with my viewing angle.

Once I roused Mom and Friend out of the house, we were able to enjoy unusually nice summer weather.

Yup – these are warm days, #amirite?

Then we drive through Downtown Seattle, on our way to the hotel we were staying at.

We arrive.

I scream “Valet … Valet Anybody”?

I openly wonder whether this is a five-paw hotel, ’cause I’m not staying as some fleabag next to the K-Mart.

I sense this hotel meets my expectations … though I openly wonder what kind of pup is named “Marvin”? Maybe he is a Martian.

I suppose the high moment of the evening is when Mom went off to dinner and left me alone in the hotel room and I threw a fit and the staff at the hotel called Mom and told her to rescue me and Mom said “I’m eating dinner” and the staff said “well at least bring him down to spend time with us” and so Mom did that and I greeted new guests for an hour, give or take.

Pretty good stuff, eh? Credit goes to Aunt Sheila for the brilliant snaps.

Today we met Dad at the airport, and the family unit began our journey – we moved from the Pacific Northwest and we now head south toward our home in Arizona. We’re eating pico-guac chicken burgers in Central Oregon as we speak. Tomorrow it will be 100 degrees all up and down the West Coast – toasty weather for a drive south. Hopefully we will get to listen to some “Yacht Rock” on SiriusXm tomorrow – FM radio was sub-par today.

Hello! It’s me.

Well, I was floored by the news that we’re moving.

Yes. Moving.

To Arizona.

To the house we spent the spring in.

See, I got depressed. No Wendy. We came up north and I didn’t see here anywhere. I looked and looked … nothin’.

Dad and I had a chat. I asked, “How much more food would I have if we sold our house up north and moved down south?” Dad did the math and said “more than a thousand bags of kibble and several bags of crunchables (i.e. rawhide chewies)”. I said “Done, we’re outta here.”

Mom and Dad sold the house in two days to nice people who want it immediately. So we’re moving in less than two weeks. With luck, we’ll see Wendy somewhere on our way down south … but if we don’t see her, I’m giving up … she’s gone … she may have never existed in the first place. Or she did and I loved her dearly, whatever. She’s not here, and that’s all that matters, peeps.

Mom told me to figure out if there were any toys I wanted the movers to move. I said “all of ’em”!!

Then Mom said “No, pick a dozen or so” and I gave her the old-fashioned “Dashie Glare”.

You know what that look means, #amirite? That look means “Two dozen toys or we cancel the move.”

Dad says we cannot back out of a legally binding contract after earnest money has been deposited.

You know what I think of that?

Then I ransacked the toys in a fit of rage. That’s what happens when Wendy is nowhere to be found.

That’s when Mom told me to take a time out. and I obliged.

So we sold our house for at least a thousand bags of kibble. Sounds like a good deal to me. This week I get to stop and smell the roses … and smell the pee-mail … then the following week, we begin our adventure as we head south back to our Arizona home.

P.S.: Mom says there’s no way she’s gonna sit and tolerate 115 degrees a day every day for 10 weeks, so one might theorize that some quality RV time is in the offing …