Sunday Night in Virginia

In our very own Best Western hotel. On countless trips home we've spent the night in this hotel. Too many times to remember. On the way to Westminster and back, this winter. And this summer, all nine dogs and I stayed here on the way to ninety-six year old Uncle Fatty's funeral. Bill had flown out to be with him when his condition was critical. I had no dog sitter, so if I wanted to go, I had to take the whole waggle. I arrived at this hotel, bone tired at one in the morning, and walked in with nine dogs in tow. Nine wonderful, well behaved, quiet, lovely good dogs.

The five in the room with me as I write this are already asleep. Good dogs. As I told the rotten clam in the not-so-super-8 story to the other folks who travel with dogs over the weekend, I was given invaluable advice. Febreeze. The more seasoned travelers smiled at my naivete. "You don't know about bringing Febreeze," they smiled? I surely do now. Lord that was nasty.

No need for Febreeze in our best Best Western, though I could use a nice scented candle to combat the dog farts. I can't wait to switch back to our old food. This is awful. The van is starting to glow green. It is probably a nice safety feature, being more visible to fellow drivers with its lime green glow, but sometimes I have to open the windows simply to prevent my asphyxiation.

Oh, I was sad leaving today. I feel like a part of me gets torn open. And yet, in a contradiction impossible to understand, I can't wait to get home to Paducah. Maybe I have learned a thing or two from the dogs. Mama Pajama and Sam I Am are uninhibited in their joy at seeing their friends back east. And they will be just as joyful to see Bill and their pack in Paducah.

I know just how they feel.

We'll zoom the rest of the way home tomorrow, impatient to get back. And I probably won't even have to buy gas... the dogs will provide plenty!

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