Hello. It’s me!

Saturday is the day when produce is brought to the attention of the public. I know, I know, you think you can just waltz down to the local Safeway and purchase greens at your convenience. You’d be wrong.

“Everybody” is out on a Saturday morning in summer. Personally, I like to walk the streets. It’s a cardio-friendly activity, and you never know who you’ll run into.

I think their names were Michael and Ella, or something like that. Doesn’t really matter. They were telling me that they had not seen a single chupacabra all morning. That’s what really matters. Ella mentioned that there was a bowl of fresh water just a block away. Insider tips are a big part of the Saturday morning stroll through town.

Sometimes, you get a discriminatory message that really get under your skin.

Yeah, thanks.

This frisky couple were having a bit of a spat … look at how the one pup blocks the presence of the other pup with an assertive left-paw maneuver.

I’m not one for the single paw gesture. I like to put both front paws on the face of a dog during a meet-and-greet. You’d be surprised how often that move goes sideways.

Even though I could not enter the market, I was told that lettuce, kale, and scooters were in abundance.

I asked my friend Jack how he was doing?

Jack told me to check out the huge Surf & Turf sale – he thought Dad might be willing to purchase some sockeye salmon for lunch.

Some pups stayed away from the market and from the Huge Sale – they just relaxed and did some canine watching.

Up and down the streets we strolled … streets where produce was sold. When we finally got home, I decided to end this poem.

Hello! It’s me!!

Dad says, “Hey buddy, there’s a fly over by the deck door!”

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Boy (visit the website if you cannot see the video).

There are a handful of Best Practices we all need to follow when probing an insect.

First, make sure you approach in a crouching position.

“Low and Slow” is how I like to make my move. The last thing you want to tell a fly is “Hey, Dude, please sit there while I crush your exoskeleton with my paw” It’s been my experience that flies do not appreciate being told of their imminent demise – heck, I’ve seen them fly away when approached inappropriately, like they want to actually get away from you. That’s not fun for anybody. So be sure to sneak up on the insect.

Second, I like to tease the insect. I playfully bat the fly with my right front paw, maybe a half-dozen times. I do this to stun the winged warrior. Yes, occasionally this playful batting motion causes damage … crushed legs, wrecked wings, that kind of thing. That’s all part of the game, and they’ll always be another fly on the horizon, so don’t let it get you down if you cause damage. But the longer you prolong the inevitable, the more fun you get to have.

Third, move in to “retire” the insect. Once the insect has been subdued, forcefully crunch the insect with your teeth. By this time, you have been unable to protect the sensitive insect exoskeleton, severely damaging the frame during “playtime”, so put the little critter out of her misery. In fact, go ahead and eat the insect, if you so desire. Insects are a fantastic source of protein.

This is where “the feelz” kick in.

There’s a certain melancholy that kicks in once the victim descends into your fundus.

So my fourth and final Best Practice is this … CHEER UP! Don’t let the “termination” of the event get you down. Be vigilant. Always be vigilant. There may well be another insect hiding around the corner. And if there is, the insect may well provide the medicine that soothes the savage soul of a pup looking for something to do.

Hello. It’s me!

As you may already know, I am a finicky eater.

• I will not eat out of a bowl.
• I will not eat dog food #pedestrian.
• I only eat a tiny fraction of any dog treat, if I choose to eat it at all.
• In instances where I am starving, I make Dad’s life miserable instead of actually eating dog food out of a bowl.
• String Cheese is the go-to-choice, but I’m growing sick of that, too.

So for lunch, Dad decided to implement a test. What would I eat?

Would I eat SPAM (a registered trademark of the Spam Corporation, Austin, MN)?

Would I eat sunny-side up organic cage-free farm-fresh eggs?

Would I eat neither?

Would I eat both?

I know, the drama is killing you. And for those of you who are a slight bit lemonheaded and think that you’d just starve me and force me to eat my dog food out of a bowl, lemme tell you, I’d make your life miserable. Each of the past two mornings, Dad tried to do just that … and as a courteous way of thanking him, I threw up yellow/foamy bile on his new living room rug. I had body shakes prior to throwing up. Seriously. That’s how I get when I am starving to death and food is available and I refuse to eat it. This morning, body shakes once again. I was preparing to vomit all over the place for the third consecutive day when Dad got me to eat some ham. Then things were fine. Of course, you’re saying to yourself, “Well, Dash, you are a manipulative little critter, aren’t you?” I don’t view this as manipulation. I view this as adaptation. Both sides gently adapting to each other.

Where was I?

Oh, the quiz question.

I elected to eat THE EGGS!! I refused the SPAM (a registered trademark of the Spam Corporation, Austin, MN) after sampling a morsel or two. #notrealmeat

But the eggs!

#mmmmmmgoood

Hello! It’s me.

I thought you might want to see what it looks like when I am asked to cross the street. Dad says “Let’s Hustle” … and then I comply (if you cannot see the video, please visit the website to witness the magic).

I mean, what do you think of that? The raw athleticism? The unstable and unbalanced and uncentered camera images? The adoring masses cheering my progress. It’s a lot to digest!

Like I said, when Dad wants me to cross the street, he asks me to “Hustle”.

I like to do the hustle!!

Hello. It’s me!

I’m told that the sun is past peak now, so ima gonna soak up every single possible ray of light available to me … even if our summer turns out to be cool and clammy, as is now forecast. Or, I’ll soak up the rays until my skin is gently broasted by El Sol. Then, I retire to the comfy confines of our living room and await our next adventure.

Dad tells me that given our geographic proximity to The Border, we are blessed to celebrate the Independence of two nations.

“Whatevs pops”. As long as Dad cooks hot dogs on the grill and I get to sample a half-dozen morsels, I’ll go along with his Master plan. Peace, Canada!

According to my calculations, I’ve been alive for 0.3% of the history of this Great Country. This leaves me uniquely qualified to offer my opinions on this glorious Day. Here are a few random and utterly meaningless thoughts, shared in no particular order. Bask in my wisdom.

1. The Eagle may be the symbol of all that is great about our country, but the eagle that makes dinosaur-esque sounds outside my bedroom window at 4:45am needs to chill, dude.
2. The fact that Dad spilled an entire can of Diet Pepsi all over his pajamas and computer keyboard this morning has no bearing whatsoever on his ability to put kibble in the bowl each week. That being said, it does make one wonder how he gets through the day.
3. For some, sticks and stones may break their bones. But for me, sticks are meant to be carried down our driveway in my mouth and deposited next to our front door.
4. Tree sap on my neck, what the heck?

I’m dreaming of Making America Great Again … though from my point of view, it’s been pretty great so far. Though I do long for the mythical Wendy in my life …

Have a Happy July 4. Be safe!

Hello. It’s me!

You travel nearly 6,000 miles following a trip where you traveled 4,000 miles (all within fifteen weeks), and you learn two things.

1. That’s 10,000 miles.
2. That’s exhausting!

Today, we began the transition to summer … gone are 60 degree days and grey skies and periodic showers … replaced by the blue skies and ample walking opportunities.

So Dad says “clean yourself up kid, we’re headed to town to do some chores.”

When we got to town, a family told us that we had to look for a pup named “Wendy”. We were told that “Wendy” looked just like me.

Alright – game on!

No sign of “Wendy” along the sidewalk.

I was easily distracted.

But Dad was focused on our mission. So we moved forward. I asked a gaggle of ladies in the middle of a crafting project if they could help me find “Wendy”?

No? Alright. I’ll do it myself. How about this one? Is “Wendy” in this gaggle of pups?

The overweight pup rebuffed me with extreme prejudice, maybe because I’m packin’ an extra pound myself.

I walked up the hill, and ran into this pup … is this “Wendy”?

I’m as inclusive as the next dog, but dude, that ain’t “Wendy”.

And then … in the distance … I see a pup who looks like me. I sprint down the street and introduce myself …

“I’m Dash”.

The pup looks at me … and says … “I’m Toby.”

Toby?

Toby is two years old, and was shaved, and that’s the excuse I’m giving for explaining why Toby looks so fabulous and I look so much like a pup that had a bit too much ham for lunch last week.

But as much as I like Toby from Monterrey, and trust me, I like Toby, Toby was not “Wendy”. Wendy is the kind of gal I could see myself sharing spaghetti with (#angelhair).

There would be no “Wendy” sighting on this beautiful late June afternoon. I know, I know, you think “Toby” and “Wendy” sound the same. Toby’s family told me they were informed of a “Wendy” as well.

So the search continues … for the elusive “Wendy”.

But first, a nap.

Hello! It’s me.

Looking back, it’s been a great trip. But today was all about crossing the finish line.

To cross the finish line, we had to hop over the Cascades. And the beautiful thing about the Pacific Northwest (or the awful thing) is that you cannot tell the difference between June 16 and February 16.

We hurtled through suburban Bellevue.

And made our way to Anacortes.

Now, you might remember what Dad ate during his trip. This little beauty comes to mind.

But in Anacortes, meals look something like this.

#CopperRiverSalmon.

We hopped on to the ferry to go home. I took instruction from the kind staff who guided our rig on to the ferry.

The worker asked me to take the wheel, and steer us into the left lane on the ferry.

It was a tight squeeze, one that requires more than just relying upon mirrors for guidance.

Once we were securely loaded, we headed to the islands.

After traveling 5,713 miles in 28 days … 2,500 miles out, 1,113 miles in Wisconsin, and 2,100 miles home … I hurried down the hill toward our home.

In my next update, I will leave you with a few key thoughts about what 28 days and 5,713 miles in a tin can feel like. But for now, I need rest after crossing the finish line. So let’s have you do some work. How about leaving a comment and telling me what your favorite moment of my trip was?

Hello. It’s me.

Oh, I’m fed up. Fed. Up.

Have you ever been placed on the floor of a recreational vehicle for ten straight hours? I mean, I got so sick of riding that I decided to take the wheel.

But the clown with the mysterious hosiery and Pop Tart crumbs littering the floor demanded access to the gas pedal.

And so we drove. On and on and on.

I mean, sure, it’s neat that it is 41 degrees at 6,393 of elevation outside of Butte, but that only solves thirty seconds of a ten hour travel puzzle, amirite?

At lunch, Dad showed me the Tesla charging stations. As if this is some sort of tourist attraction.

Across Montana and Idaho we thundered …

It was when we got knee-deep into Washington State that I nearly lost my mind. Dad decided that we should stop so I could tinkle. Did he choose Mt. Rainier? Olympic National Park? The Space Needle? Nope. He chose scrub land near Moses Lake. And I made it very, very clear that I was not tolerant of this fake tourist attraction. I was outta here!

Then Mom said something about rattlesnakes, and I decided it was safer in the rig.

Inside the rig, I became downright belligerent. Mom tried to pass the time (visit the website if you cannot see the video via email) by making me fetch toys in a vehicle moving at 76 miles per hour.

Yes, that’s what I’ve been reduced to … playing fetch in a vehicle moving at 76 miles per hour.

And then you have Dad complaining about some rattle in the back of the rig. On and on and on. You should see the faces he makes. My goodness. Exhausting.

We finally staggered into Ellensburg, Washington. Mom and I shared a twist cone, Dad forgot about the metallic squinking rattle after enjoying a malted milkshake. The tedium of a 576 mile trek featuring countless ups and downs wiped me out.

Dad says that today is the “penultimate day” in our trip. Whatever that means. I just hope that this is the next-to-last day of cannonballing across America. I’m ready to be home. I mean, we used to have fun on this trip. Stuff like this, remember?

I’d do just about anything to sit in a simulated wood chipper instead of bouncing along a 2,100 mile route home. Mom keeps telling me that we’ll be home tomorrow. I sure hope so. Vacations are fun when you don’t perceive a Tesla charging station to be a tourist attraction.

Hello, it’s me.

That’s the rig parked alongside a remote exit in Southern Montana.

We began the day with a casualty.

Then things slowly began to unwind, under the guise of “Big Sky”.

We’re cruising through Montana when Dad says … “DEER”.

Now, this deer was on a mission. It began a targeted run from the upper end of the east-bound median, pointed directly at our RV, loped down the median, and then appeared to accelerate up the median toward us.

Dad was in the left lane, headed westbound. There was a car next to him in the right lane. He had three choices.

1. Speed Up.
2. Maintain Speed.
3. Slow Down.

Because the deer pointed directly at the rig, Dad elected to speed up. This turned out to be a good decision, because the deer ran smack dab into the driver’s side of the van. When 25mph meets 80mph, there are two losers and one winner.

1. Loser = The deer, who died (we assume) due to the fact that 80mph > 25mph.
2. Loser = The rig, which suffered damage.
3. Winner = A to-be-determined auto body shop, who will be paid a thousand or two thousand to make the necessary repairs.

We immediately pulled on to a freeway off ramp, which was conveniently placed right next to the scene of the crime. Dad opened the door, and proclaimed “we have damage“.

Yup, that’s deer fur above the wheel on the door covering the water faucet.

Actually, the deer hit the driver’s side door, dented the area around the water heater, abrasively scraped the vehicle up to the wheel well, then finished the job before chasing the light #restinpeace.

This is where NASCAR comes into play.

Mom says “Do you have any of that purple duct tape I bought you?” And in a rare moment of marital compliance, Dad says “YES!”.

Mom gets on the phone with Allstate.

Dad gets to work on the rig like the pit crew of a car damaged on turn two at Bristol Motor Speedway. Working furiously, Dad only lost three laps to the leader while making necessary repairs.

Dad took me for a quick break to tinkle, and conveniently, there was a wrecker about to tow a school bus … just in case we also needed assistance, a wrecking service was at our disposal.

Down three laps to the leader, Dad held out hope that we could make it all the way to Missoula by sunset. As Dad says, “once you get to Missoula, you are opening the door to Pacific Northwest.” Or maybe he didn’t say that, because it sounds stupid to me. Whatever. He still held out hope.

So we drove. The duct tape held! The rig appeared to drive as an aligned vehicle.

That’s about the time that the winds hit. Big-time winds. 30mph – 40mph. The rig rocked, and the rig rolled. Rocked. Rolled. Rocked. Rolled. Then, this message appeared on the dashboard.

Visit workshop? Why, did we forget to pack a crescent wrench?

Turns out the Electronic Stability Program malfunctioned.

We had three choices.

1. Hook up the code reader and see what the computer says.
2. Take the rig to the closest Mercedes dealership (about 400 miles away), and hope nothing else happened.
3. Pull into a gas station, turn the rig off, pump some gas, clean the windshield, have Mom research the issue online, and then pray that the situation self-corrects.

Dad chose option number three.

Mom offered hope with her internet research – it was just high winds causing the computer to freak out.

Option three corrected the problem.

All problems can be corrected by turning a computer off and then restarting the computer.

At this point, Mom and Dad elected to “take Missoula off the board”. They drove 20mph under the speed limit in high winds to Bozeman, paid an unGodly amount of money for a hotel room from a proprietor who took full advantage of the proximity of Yellowstone to gouge any weary traveler who maimed a deer and was asked by an automobile computer to visit a workshop.

Mom and Dad then did what any rational couple who have been married nearly thirty years and faced a fair share of external noise over said timeframe would do.

After dinner, it was time to stroll the streets of Bozeman. I quickly identified a threat, #rustymetal.

Mom found an establishment to soothe her savage soul.

And the family unit adopted a motto to begin tomorrow anew.

Hello! It’s me.

So this was an interesting day.

We began in Albert Lea, Minnesota, and immediately “thundered” across the bottom of the state.

Before you knew it, we were in Dakota … South Dakota. An hour after arriving in Dakota … South Dakota, we checked out the greatest of all tourist attractions … the Corn Palace!

Seconds into our visit, I actively ignored the “corny” depiction of Elvis and was on the lookout for threats. For instance, what is this threat? Is it …

1. Real.
2. Perceived.
3. Rusted Metal.
4. Chupacabra.

Easy pickin’s, don’t you think?

But then I decided to desecrate this threat. Do you know what threat this is?

1. Real.
2. Perceived.
3. Rusted Metal.
4. Chupa”cob”ra.

Yes, that’s “Chupa’cob’ra”. And once you desecrate Chupacobra, you’re in for a world of hurt.

I tried to make nice with a big Chupacobra.

I thought things were fine. I let my guard down for just a moment …

That’s when Dad said, “I think that’s a storm off in the distance.”

Peering through the ample array of bug smearings, I quickly deduced that this was no ordinary storm … no it wasn’t … this was the WRATH OF CHUPACOBRA!

The “wrath” enveloped our vehicle.

There would be no escaping the WRATH OF CHUPACOBRA. Lightning, thunder, and sixty mile per hour cross-winds accompanied heavy rain. We were paying the price.

Because I piddled on a Chupacobra, the Chupacobra mercilessly piddled on thousands of travelers in Western South Dakota.

Our twenty minutes of terror at the hands of an angry Chupacobra finally ended, a thorough punishment for a minor desecration.

And then, the angry Chupacobra proved benevolent … providing a peace offering … a double rainbow.

The Chupacobra pronounced that she would never, ever, flood weary travelers again.

We finally snuck out of our rig, and surveyed the landscape.

We ended our unending descent into stormy punishment with a custard-based treat … I got to feast on a pup-cup.

My advice to you? Do not ever do anything to tick-off the fabled “Chupa’cob’ra”. She presents a serious threat that must be heeded, not tinkled upon.

Our day ended in Gillette, Wyoming. Yup, we left Southeast Wisconsin late Sunday afternoon, and are already in Wyoming as of Monday evening.

Our hostess at the LaQuinta in Gillette says that Gillette is the Energy Capital of the United States. She may be right. We were full of energy after a harrowing day in the Great Plains.