Ryanne, her three dogs, Casper and I left with excitement early this morning. After all, the humans in the pack didn’t know what to expect from the dogs or each other. Would they get restless early on? Would we? We wouldn’t know until we knew.
Ryanne took the wheel, and the trip started well. We saw the sunrise over Murrietta, and we didn’t hit traffic until Corona, a town outside of Los Angeles. We stopped to get gasoline, coffee and breakfast (humans); and to pee, sniff and stretch (dogs).
The pack was so quiet, we forgot we had dogs in the car until one of them shook their head, nametags jingling, or farted smellily. The latter was the first time we uttered our roadtrip catchphrase: Well, if this is the worst that happens….
Our speed picked back up outside of the L.A.-metro area until we hit the California/Nevada state line, where we got out again at a grassy pet relief area. The dogs loved it, even lame-legged Mia and especially world-is-new Casper. The temperature swung from San Diego’s 70s to desert-like 100s, and we watched the mercury climb as we listened to Mindy Kaling read quirky passages from her newest audio book.
At some point past the brief Arizona mountain range and before our first stop in Beaver, Utah, that we hadn’t given those super-quiet dogs any water. Our first roadtrip fail (and the second time we employed our catchphrase “If that’s the worst that happens.”