Abby

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“I don’t care. I’d like to go anywhere.”
― John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley: In Search of America

If someone asks me what is the best part of this trip, I say, paws down, “Abby”.

Abby always travels well. From the time I picked her up at the shelter in rural West Virginia, she loved riding in the car.  At least every month or two, we make the five hour trek between home in Pittsburgh and the Poconos. For her, the car means fun. Sometimes, it means a trip to the river to swim. It signifies a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s to play with Hank and Cora. Often, the car means a trip to one of our local forests to hike. Mostly, it represents a fun trip. Occasionally, it means a visit to the vet.

Even knowing of this prowess, I don’t have complete confidence in Abby’s ability to do this trip. She is an anxious dog. I took her to a dog behavioral specialist to learn how best to deal with her anxieties, especially around other dogs. The dog psychologist gave me some behavioral modifications and an ongoing prescription for Prozac.

Abby is very protective of me, which is exactly what you want in a travel companion. She is always on the lookout for danger, which in her mind includes even teeny dogs. She alerts me to the intruder by barking and then attempts to take care of the threat herself.

Before leaving for this road trip, I had some maintenance work done on my house. When the workers came, I locked Abby in my bedroom, to keep her out from underfoot. She barked and scratched feverishly at the door, trying to save me from certain death. I was concerned that she would behave this way if I tried to leave her at one of the Airbnb houses.

Abby surprises me. She thrives on this trip. I sense she is overjoyed that we are constantly together and proud of herself for being chosen to serve. Abby is on the job, protecting both the car and me.

Abby loves walking around the North Shore of Pittsburgh, prancing along, showing me the sites. By the time we explore the farm near Mammoth, she is exhausted and sleeps peacefully while I am away in the cave. Abby quietly accepts the dog noises coming from upstairs at the St. Louis Airbnb. She prances and high-steps through our Badlands hike.

On the farm in Kentucky, she barks at the cows and then let them be. Driving through South Dakota, she barks at the bighorn sheep and then let them be. In Wyoming, she barks at the bison and then let them be. In Yellowstone, she barks at the huge elk and then let them be.

Shadowed by the Grand Tetons, Abby and I share a cheese and cracker picnic, sitting in the back of the car with the hatch open. In Jackson, she struts along the walking paths that parallels the roads. At the Airbnb house in Fort Collins, she runs around the huge meadow that surrounds it. At the Great Sand Dunes, she is ecstatic to be along on the hike up the Great Dune and bravely leads the expedition.

Generally, Abby enjoys the car ride. She tolerates hours and hours and hours of the backseat. When possible, I stop and hike with her.  

The national park policy is that dogs aren’t allowed on the hiking trails. They are allowed only where cars can go- on roads and in parking lots. Dull. So, we find a state park or a city park and walk there.

While in the car, Abby whines when she wants or needs something. The trick is figuring out why she is whining. I check my mental list of Abby’s needs. Does she need to pee? Poop? Drink? Eat? Sleep? Is she hot? Cold? Or does she just need love? Fixing one of these things gets her to stop whining and then gets her to relax and sleep. 

It also seems like Abby whines when my blood sugar is low. I haven’t proven this yet, as I am still observing. We are lost. I am trying to use a spotty GPS to find our way. I am unaware that my blood sugar is dropping. Abby is whining. Trying to concentrate on the problem, I absently snap, “Abby, STOP!” I realize that my lack of concentration, sweating, and shakiness is due to my plummeting blood sugar. Abby is warning me. She stops whining once I pull over and pull out the Smarties. 

Every night, Abby smashes down her chosen sleep spot with her paws, rolls herself up into a ball and drops into a deep sleep within minutes of arriving. She finally goes off duty once out we unpack at our destination. I send out a gratitude to the universe for such a steadfast companion. My heart swells with love for this tiny creature. I reach out to gently pet her head to let her know how much she means to me. In response, she opens her eyes, looks into mine in acknowledgment and we connect.

Right now, she “helps” me write this book, balled up, leaning against my Indian crossed legs, dreaming big and twitching.