In the days leading up to our rendezvous, it was hard to imagine leaving Minerva behind. She'd really been a model of good doggie behavior so far on the trip, and never once complained about all the long hours riding in the car.
But we had some big stuff ahead of us, namely some further international travel to Victoria and Vancouver, British Columbia, to get that 2nd "BC" in our trip. These destinations involved taking two ferry rides (dogs are allowed, but you have to ride with them on the exterior decks of the vessel--no fun if it happens to be rainy or high winds), and in Vancouver we were leaving our camping gear sheathed in favor of staying in a downtown hotel and hitting the tourist attractions. Finding a dog-friendly hotel meant extra bucks, and leaving her stuck in a room all day while we had fun seemed pointless. Instead, Minerva would get to go on her own doggie vacation. Chris and Elizabeth live on a big rural property, where their fenced backyard/play area is larger than our house and yard combined, several times over. Minerva can run as long and far as she wants, find a place in the shade to drop down and rest, watch Elizabeth plant her garden, stick her nose in corners to look for the cats, and cuddle up snugly at Chris's feet when he gets home, because she LOVES him.
So with the first departure of a member of our party, I wanted to shine a spotlight on our good girl and some of the fun times she's had on the Inaugural Rhyne BC to BC Run.
The vacation/party atmosphere for Minerva really got going in LA, where Andy's Uncle Scott lives. Southern California was experiencing a heat wave, and our four-legged companion was off and running in Scott's backyard, leaping into the pool to swim and then run all over to smell the places where Scott's son's dog had last been visiting.
Ah, then Mexico. The community where the family vacation house is located has a nearly-private beach, with the sand stretching empty all around save for a few walkers or joggers from the nearby hotel. This, in addition to Mexican laws being more lax or completely nonexistent when compared to ours, meant that Minerva could run and leap and play and fetch off-leash around the shore as much as she wanted.
She was actually very obedient and trustworthy, never straying too far away from where Andy was snapping pictures, or where Scott was fishing. She loved to dive face-first into the waves after the biggest sticks we could find, screwing her eyes shut against the salt spray and only putting down the object of her attention when she wanted to plant her feet and shake wildly, launching sandy, wet-dog droplets in every direction. Usually right next to me.
She leapt into the surf over and over, so intent on her play that she paid no attention to the spot under her foreleg where her harness had rubbed away the hair and left a raw patch of skin. We doctored her with a dab of neosporin later that afternoon when we cleaned her ears--a chore that we'd come prepared for, since it must be completed every time she swims to prevent ear infections. Usually a docile girl during this wet-tissue-down-the-ear-canal process, Nerve was nearly comatose after her morning's exertions and we had to hold her up to get the job done! She would spend the latter part of each day on the patio, snoozing and alternating her damp black doggy body in the sunny and shady spots to regulate her temperature. She couldn't even muster a glance for the monster truck rally taking place inches away.
All this fun, of course, meant that she was completely ruined for the rest of the trip in terms of behaving herself around bodies of water. At the KOA, we couldn't even walk her near the pool. In Mendocino, we gave in to her incessant barking and whining and finally took her off the leash in a secluded spot, crossing our fingers that the park ranger would be too busy regulating the abalone divers to notice a black streak rolling for joy in the sand across the way.
The only aquatic zone she would not touch was the outdoor spa tub at Grammy and Grandpa's house, a small but deep tub of warm water with bubble jets that all three dogs agreed belonged to the devil. When pacing the yard, they'd practically tuck their tails and run to get by the spa gazebo. I think I even saw Minerva touch wood and spit after getting too close to it, like a superstitious village granny. The dogs managed to keep their distance from it during their yard-romping (or in Tye's case, barbecue-begging), and their dislike of the steaming cauldron of doom was the only thing they all had in common besides their color and love of a good bed.
Besides her frantic desire to jump into water anytime (when we first arrived at the house in Mexico, she walked to the edge of the patio, spotted the ocean beyond, and leapt from the low surrounding patio wall about eight feet down to the street below), she was a good camping team player. Fresh from the habit of letting her wander around off-leash as she pleased in Rosarito, we continued this method at the first few campgrounds we visited, allowing her to hunker untethered beneath the picnic table while we prepared or ate dinner and the like. At our first campsite in the San Diego valley area, it was so hot and dry after the warm, misty coastal air of Mexico that she didn't even notice her leashless freedom and just sat panting in the shade. By the time we got to Mendocino, our fourth camping location, she was finding her own creative ways to get comfortable. We were unpacking and I was in the tent when Andy called, "Katie? Did, um...you put Minerva here?" Confused, since I didn't know where the dog was, I emerged to see what he was talking about.
In years past when we've been camping, we've always kept her restricted, tied to something sturdy in some way (We can't forget the time we went to a park and wrapped her long woven leash around a tree and she busted it. The leash, not the tree.), but we were very proud of how well she did in every situation. When you're spending 7 weeks on the road, traveling a total of nearly 5,000 miles and constantly staying in unfamiliar places, you're out of your comfort zone a LOT. I would say that you don't even have a comfort zone, but for us we savored the familiarity of our Mini and our tent, the two places we spent the most time no matter where we were. Minerva would get squished into the front seat, the back seat, the rear hatch; she'd jostle for space with Alton's toys, groceries, bottles of wine, her own food bag, camera accoutrement...and she'd just curl and twist and turn to make herself comfortable, resting her head on bags, the armrest, my arm, or anything else nearby. On long driving days, the doggie would definitely get the short end of the stick as we pulled in only briefly at gas stations and rest stops, giving all the humans in the car an opportunity to use the facilities before someone would hastily clip on the Nerve's leash, run her quickly through a patch of grass, upend a water bottle into her little plastic dog dish and then open the car door for her to leap right back in.
But don't worry, she got her rewards from Daddy.
No, not beer. But each night in the tent, we'd position her dog bed right next to Andy's sleeping bag, only to have her sneak onto, under, or even into his sleeping bag at some point while we all slept. Andy would awaken to find his legs immobile, pinned in place by fifty pounds of dog getting comfy on top of his sleeping bag and pinching down the excess fabric between the tent floor and her inert, snoring body. Andy was insulated by a layer of dog hair clinging to the fuzzy fabric inside his sleeping bag (so I took care not to mix up my bag with his), and Nerve was cozy and warm every night. She would sigh a doggy sigh of happiness and cuddled ever closer to her beloved Daddy, even when snuggling with him meant that she laid on the bare floor of the tent because her pup bed was shoved too far away.
She was very content in the tent, a fact that came in very handy for us on a few occasions when we needed to go to a no-dogs-allowed zone. Knowing that she'd just tuck in, stay warm, and quietly await our return, we'd kiss her good-bye in the tent, locking the zippers closed to protect against any would-be petty thieves accidentally letting her out. It was nerve-wracking (no pun intended) the first time we did it, but knowing that she would be fine by herself helped us to take better care of ourselves, like giving up on the campfire and dinner when the wind wouldn't let us light a match, and hightailing our chilly selves to the nearest Applebee's. Minerva, thank you for putting up with all this upheaval, with the new places, with getting your needs met last, with not getting to go to Applebee's...all in exchange for a few hugs. (For this picture, Alton walked over to Minerva to give her a hug, then asked me if I would take their picture. Awww.)
Back to the present day, we met Elizabeth and the kids at the casino for cigarette smoke-filled air and a great big buffet. We ate quickly while the Nerve bided her usual time in the car (comfortable on her blanket, with tinted windows and the sunroof open), then trooped everyone back out to the parking lot.
In days to come he'd repeatedly forget and ask where Minerva was, but on this day he was head over heels with happiness that he got to have lunch and funtime with his buddies.
We prepped Minerva's bed in the back of Elizabeth's van, and the kids hopped up for a quick picture.
We'll miss you, girl! Enjoy your time romping in Oregon, and we'll be home to you in a few short weeks. (Don't be too sad; she always looks like that.)
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