The Cookie Chronicles

(On The Road Part Three)

We all travel for many different reasons, but one defining feature for any type of travel, whether for business, pleasure or pure adventure, is that it breaks you out of your day-to-day routines. If you work at home, and your family basically consists of your spouse and a dog, as ours does, then travel will throw a monkey wrench into just about everything.

One big reason for Cookie’s initial displeasure upon embarking (pun intended) on her first big road trip was this total disruption of her daily routine. Our day at the beach might well have compensated had it become the new daily routine. But such was not to be. We had many miles to go to reach our rented lodging in Palm Springs before there could even be a temporary new routine.

On the third day of our road trip we packed up the car and headed south along the Oregon coast, with stops now and again to stretch our legs and sniff the fresh salt air. The short winter daylight hours meant that we could only cover about 250 miles in a day, before stopping to find the evening’s food and lodging. A number of days passed in this way, until we found ourselves well south of San Francisco in a small town on California’s Central Coast, where we’d taken a dog-friendly room at the local Best Western.

By this time we’d learned a few things about traveling with Cookie. Finding a ground floor room within steps of a beach was rule number one. At home Cookie almost always sleeps through the night, but on the road things are not so predictable, and quite often in the middle of the night we’d be awakened by the dog rattling her collar, the signal that a bathroom break was required.

The first time we had to get up, get dressed, make our way with the dog down three flights of stairs to a motel parking lot, and then wait in the bitter cold while Cookie ran through her elaborate ritual of sniffing, circling, sniffing some more and then finally settling on the right spot, well, the first time was also the last time. We agreed never to settle for anything other than a ground floor room with quick access to the outdoors.

With practice it was getting easier to find a room. When entering the reception area of a promising motel we’d always bring the pup in with us. She’s a shameless schmoozer, and can pretty much charm anyone. That, plus her petite stature and overall good nature, would generally do the trick.

Many motels do have a designated dog room, and this is often the worst room in the place. If you don’t mind sharing a kennel with your pet, these rooms are better than pitching a tent in a Walmart parking lot. But at the Best Western we’d scored an end room with an ocean view and a short patio opening onto a small courtyard. Perfect!

As we unpacked I opened the patio doors to get some fresh air. We were far enough south that it was pleasantly mild, and a lovely sunset was under way. Directly to our left a deep ravine opened up, with a steep drop, and a warning sign reading “Dangerous Ravine—Do Not Enter!”

“We’d better be careful” I sternly told Mrs. G. “We don’t want Cookie running out of the room and down into that no man’s land.” No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than Cookie, standing just behind me, dropped Mr. B, who rolled across the deck, bounced over the side and – wait for it – fell straight down into the depths of the ravine.

“Dear God” I muttered to myself, “now what?” It was already getting dark as I peered over the abyss into the underbrush. Cookie was ready to lead a rescue mission, but I was not entirely enrolled in that plan. I thought I spotted a blur of red about halfway down the slope. It could have been Mr. B, or possibly some sort of poisonous plant, many of which seem to populate large parts of California. Sensing my concern Mrs. G made an executive decision: “Come in and we’ll look for it in the morning!”

Is there anything more sorrowful and guilt-inducing than the plaintive look in the eyes of a small dog who’s just seen her ball go tumbling down into a ravine? I think not. As darkness settled in I brought the dejected Cookie back inside, closed the patio doors and set about getting ready for dinner. I knew I’d be waking up at the crack of dawn, and I’d better have my ropes, carabiners and quickdraws ready for the mission implausible I was about to undertake.