Niagara Falls was a turning point for us - literally and figuratively. We had gone as far east as our itinerary allowed and were turning back for California for the stretch home.

I hugged Loren as we got back in the car. “We did it, Loren, we did it,” I said, nuzzling into her soft muzzle. She was panting and slightly slobbery, but I didn’t care. “Thank you for being such a good companion. Thanks for putting up with me.”

Our next stop was Pittsburgh, as we had rerouted our path to avoid Ohio on the advice of Animal Farm Foundation. Ohio has enacted a “vicious breed” ban that apparently allows officers to confiscate dogs that look like pit bulls and euthanize them. I trust AFF implicitly and was happy to skip such an ignorant part of the country. (Breed specific legislation will be a hot topic in our book, when I have more time to research).

Pittsburgh was originally suggested to me by Rebecca Courtad, a volunteer for the Western Pennsylvania Humane Society. Rebecca was kind enough to sponsor me and Loren and became a friend via Facebook.

Unfortunately, she was going to be out of town when we arrived.

“I can’t believe I’m going to miss you,” she emailed me. “But there are several volunteers and staff that would love to meet with you and Loren.”

One of them was Abby Kirkland and her 11-year old son, Reid, who rendezvoused with us at Rita’s, a frozen custard stand in the Greentree neighborhood.

It was Abby who introduced Loren to frozen custard. The cashier had given her a small dish of vanilla for free.

"Hmm, what's this?"

“Are you sure it’s OK if she eats ice cream?” I asked like a nervous first-time mother.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Abby reassured me. “My dogs eat it all the time.”

Loren sure loved it, lapping it up like an eager kid on a hot summer day.

"More please!"

While Reid took Loren on a series of several small walks, I got to know Abby. She’s volunteered at the WPHS for several years, sometimes fostering, but usually playing matchmaker for prospective adopters and the available dogs. She, like a lot of volunteers, has a soft spot for bully breeds, which make up the majority of dogs at the shelters.

“It’s a tough situation,” she sighed. “They’re such great dogs.”

Abby often brings Reid to the shelter to walk dogs. He had an ease with Loren that belied his years, walking her with strength and controlling her with authority when a couple came to the same patio with a small black dog. He also fielded questions about her by curious patrons.

"Keep the love and custard coming..."

By the end of our date, she was sitting in his lap.


"Lap dog!"

“What a cool kid,” I told Abby. “I wish there were more like him.”

Since Reid had a pressing game of Capture the Flag to attend to, they bid us goodbye and we went back to our room for a long night of watching “True Blood” on HBO.

Our trip to WPHS coincided with the big Penguins Stanley Cup victory parade in downtown Pittsburgh, not too far from the shelter’s location. Surprisingly, we sailed through the light traffic and were early for our appointment.

A volunteer named Theresa greeted us with a big friendly smile. Loren immediately introduced herself with a big sloppy kiss and forceful hug, nearly knocking poor Theresa out of her wheelchair.

"Hi Theresa!"

“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling Loren off.

“No problem,” Theresa said. “I love all the dogs that come in here.”

Once Loren was deposited in the executive director’s office, Gretchen Fieser, the WPHS director of public relations and business relationships, gave me a tour. The WPHS facility is a large, open, two-story building painted in bright, cheerful colors, with appealing graphics and several kennel areas, as well as an adoption area.

Gretchen in the kennel area

WPHS, started in 1874, is one of America’s oldest humane societies. As an “open door” shelter, they take in all types of animals…and I mean all. Goats, chickens, rabbits, gerbils, even…

“We get one or two alligators a year,” Gretchen said. “The biggest one was about four feet. He lives at a sanctuary in Florida now.”

Approximately 14,000 animals come through WPHS’ doors every year, with cats making up the largest number of intakes. Some are feral, but many are owner-surrendered. Gretchen took me into their area, where teeny tiny kittens were in cages alongside more mature cats.

A young black cat pawed at his crate, meowing for affection. I scratched his head and felt the tears coming. Others just looked at me, wide-eyed. Every cage was full. I shook my head and got angry. How hard is it to take care of a cat, for Christ’s sake?

The reasons varied, as Gretchen read their tags. “Moving. Allergies. Kid left home and mom didn’t want to take care of cat,” she recited.

Next, we met the dogs who were in the intake area being evaluated for temperament. Just like NYC, it was bully after bully after bully. Black ones, white ones, beige ones, spotted ones, sad ones, friendly ones, young ones playing together, somewhat oblivious to their surroundings.

Pittsburgh pits looking for love...


for homes...


for a second chance...

“Pits and pit mixes make up 50 percent of what’s available on the adoption floor,” Gretchen said.

There were also shepherds, beagles, Sharpeis, and the fattest yellow lab I had ever seen. “Owner got ill and couldn’t take care of anymore,” read his chart.

All of the animals are vaccinated at intake and spayed/neutered if determined eligible for adoption. We witnessed the spaying of Shy, a beautiful brown female pit bull, at the onsite medical clinic.

The veterinarian was especially pleased to perform the procedure on Shy, since she was going to a home soon. “It’s always good to know they’re being adopted, especially the pits,” she said.

WPHS has seen an increase in the adoption of pit bulls due to their “Super Seven” program, created last July by intake team leader Susie Gilbert.

“There were just so many pits here,” she said. “We put together a dream team of dedicated volunteers who train them on the basics, as well as how to interact with other dogs. It just makes pit bulls much more adoptable.”

Since “Super Seven” started, 77 pit bulls have been adopted from WPHS and five are currently in the program. Volunteers don a “Super Seven” t-shirt at events around town and talk up the program, which has been featured on local radio, television, and print.

Gilbert has received requests from close to a dozen shelters across the country, asking for information on how to start a “Super Seven” in their community, which she is more than happy to share.

“What is it about pit bulls for you?” I asked Susie.

“They’re the underdogs. I always pick the underdogs,” she said. “They remind me of me. They have a rough, tough exterior, but once you get to know them, they’re real softies.”

Gretchen is in her seventh year at the shelter, Susie on her sixth. Ask how they keep going day after day in such a challenging environment and you get two very different answers.

“I have to focus on the ones who get out, on the successes, on the whole picture,” Gretchen said. “I can’t just focus on one.”

Susie pointed to a series of black and white photos taped next to her computer monitor. “This is my wall of shame,” she said. “These are the ones I couldn’t save.”

Susie & her wall of shame

The group included Whoopi, a sweet-faced female white pit bull who was returned to the shelter five times, mostly due to separation anxiety, before being euthanized.

“As much as she was my everything, I had to let her go. We have a kennel full of pits waiting for one chance, let alone five.”

While we spoke, a man was surrendering two pit bull puppies to the shelter. The unrepentant backyard breeder had sold four from the litter; these were the unwanted remains.

Disposable inventory

According to Gilbert, the puppies are far more adoptable than the shelter’s never-ending supply of one and two year old bullies.

“The puppies aren’t as scary to people,” Gilbert said. “Super Seven gives the dogs that normally wouldn’t get looked at more of a chance. We teach them how to behave appropriately in a kennel, so people are drawn to them, which is especially helpful if they’re black or plain-looking.”

One pit that beat the odds was Joey, a 12-year old, crop-eared black male graying at the muzzle who was surrendered when his owner went to jail. His new mama? Gretchen.

Gretchen & Joey

“It was love at first sight,” Gretchen said. “I was just struck by his face and personality.” Today, Joey accompanies Gretchen to public relations events, including an annual trip to meet employees at Saks Fifth Avenue and educational programs at juvenile detention centers.

Paco, a nine-year old male graduate of the Super Seven program, was recently adopted by a 67-year old retiree.

“We believe we can teach old dogs new tricks,” Gretchen said.

The women of Hello Bully believe they can give pit bulls a new image. The non-profit foster network/advocacy organization created their logo to include a friendly, iconic cartoon of the breed that will soon be featured in comic books and other educational materials.

“We’re hoping to get into schools with Hello Bully,” said Daisy, founder and freelance graphic designer. “It can make a big difference when kids come home and tell their parents, ‘I got to meet Hello Bully today!.’”

Loren and I met Daisy and Hello Bully board member Amy, at a funky south Pittsburgh diner called the Doublewide Grill. We were running close to an hour late, thanks to the maddening crowds cheering on the Penguins (the news reported later it was 375,000 people!) and were grateful that they waited for us.

March of the penguins fans

The patio was perfect for Loren, who made herself right at home with a bowl of ice water and lots of attention from Daisy and Amy.


"I'd make a great Hello Bully model!"

Hello Bully has a board of seven and 25 volunteers to fund their outreach programs that include free spay and neuter vouchers, as well as training and exercise resources that provide pit owners with the tools to deal with unwanted behaviors.

“If we can give people management techniques, we can avoid getting these dogs turned into shelters,” Amy said. “About half of the pit owners we deal with decide to keep their dogs.”

The rest are often fostered by the Hello Bully network. Amy has two pit bulls; the male is a therapy dog. Daisy’s pit pack includes Miko and Mizuki.

Funds for the programs and foster resources are raised by several small events and a new gala, called “Lovers Not Fighters,” which was recently held at a local restaurant and attracted close to 300 guests.

“We had lawyers, doctors, mechanics, and tattoo artists. It was a true melting pot,” Daisy said. “It was just a devoted group of pit bull owners lovers bonding over their affection for the breed.”

Their five-year plan includes opening a non-traditional shelter where adoptable dogs live in a home rather than kennel environment. They see it as a “halfway house,” so that the transition to being homed wouldn’t be such a shock for the dog or its new owner.

“Temperament tests and evaluations are done while the dog’s in a high-stress shelter, where they often fail,” Daisy explained. “We want to give them a better chance to succeed.”

Unfortunately, as Amy illustrated, it’s an uphill battle.

“Some people still have the impression that shelter dogs are defective, that they have to go to a breeder, even if its an ad in the Pennysaver from some guy that‘s doing it in his backyard,” she said.

“You can’t stop stupid,” Daisy said.

That night, Loren and I were contacted by another WPHS volunteer, Laurie, who offered to meet us for breakfast. The following morning, Laurie parked next to our truck at the hotel and made the mistake of leaving her door open. Loren jumped right into her car and proceeded to drive over to Panera Bread with her new best friend.

"Are we there yet, Laurie?"

The meet and greets didn’t stop there. Loren was soon enamored of Carly and Connor, two kids out for breakfast with their mother, who had stopped to talk dog with us for a while.


"Kids are cool!"

As I came out with my food, Laurie introduced me to another WPHS volunteer, whose name escapes me. She was dressed in a pretty red suit, having started a new job. Previously, she had volunteered at the shelter close to seven days a week, but found it increasingly difficult after one of her favorite dogs was put to sleep.

“It was so hard on me, much more than I expected,” she said through tears.

Laurie nodded sympathetically.

We ate our breakfast on the patio, so Loren could join us. Laurie, originally from Virginia and the proud mom of boxer-pit mix Mercer, has volunteered at WPHS for almost three years. It has its high points and low points.

“A few weekends ago, we had 80 owner turn-ins on cats in 48 hours,” she said in disbelief. “People were lined up around the block with crates in hand.”

Laurie said the shelter was working on some Trap-Neuter-Return (TNR) programs on feral colonies with help of willing Pittsburgh residents. This approach spays and neuters feral cats and returns them to their environment, rather than turning them into a shelter, which is a mark of almost certain death for the un-socialized creatures.

Pits aren’t the only ones with problems.

Loren & I headed to Charleston, West Virginia, next, a drive of about 250 miles. Having had such a good experience at Panera, we stopped there again at lunchtime for a long overdue salad.

On the patio were a college professor, Doug, and one of his former students, Charlie, discussing poetry and music. Doug took an immediate liking to Loren and offered to hold her for a while so I could eat. He and his wife rescued a Corgi and were looking for another dog.

"I am pretty cute, aren't I?"

Too bad Loren is a bit particular about her four-legged friends. She doesn’t seem to have any problems with the two-legged variety.

(For more information on the Super Seven program or WPHS, visit www.pahumane.org and for more information on Hello Bully, visit www.hellobully.com)

I was sad to leave AFF and I think Loren was, too. We walked around the pastoral property, taking in the sights and smells before I headed over to the office for breakfast.

“What’s your schedule like today?,” Stacey asked after I expressed my sadness.

“Nothing major. Just have to drive to Cooperstown,” I said. “About 200 miles.”

“Why don’t you stay for our training class at 1 p.m. then?,” Stacey said.

Yeah. This gave us time to get cleaned up, packed up, and head to town for lunch, as well as spend more time learning with Loren. We hopped in the truck and got ourselves a sandwich before class.

There were four other dogs in the training room, along with AFF staff and a married couple of scientists visiting from California. The husband, a geneticist, is working on research that proves a dog’s breed does not prove its inherent aggressiveness, which should go a long way in preventing or overturning breed specific legislation (BSL) that has banned pit bulls in places such as Kansas, Denver, and Ohio.

Loren took her place with Courtney, who brought her in the room last. She looked around with curiosity, just a slight bit of nervousness, for a few seconds. Soon, she was putty in Courtney’s clicking, treating hands, rolling around on the floor and barely noticing the other dogs around her.

"Just call me roly poly..."

Bernice watched Loren with a practiced eye. She began training pits after acquiring a six-month old from a shelter and being asked to leave obedience class because of her new dog’s breed. After eight years at AFF, Bernice has helped hundreds of pit bulls acquire the successful behaviors that gets them adopted.

“Loren’s a really good dog,” Bernice said. “She’s solid, comfortable, confident. For a dog that’s been in a shelter for two years, Loren’s really incredible. She’s home ready.”

"I think you're pretty special, too, Aunt Bernice."

I smiled like a proud mama…make that auntie.

Stacey had noticed something from across the room. Bear, a handsome brown male, was “flirting” with Loren, making eye contact, whining, and wanting an introduction. She suggested they go for a walk together.

"Who's that sexy redhead?"

Ashley and Stacey walked the dogs while I followed closely with a camera.

“We’ll just take it slow and see if there’s any interest on Loren’s part,” Stacey said.

Bear was raring to go, but Loren didn’t seem to notice him much. She was much more fixated on the goings on at the farm. Bear, however, was pretty firmly keen on Loren.

"Give it up, big boy."

“He so wants to sniff her butt right now,” Stacey said, making us all laugh.

Ashley held Loren with strength and ease as Bear made his approach. Loren looked at him with a furrowed brow, which was a slight sign of stress. They got within a couple inches of each other, but Loren wasn’t really having it. No aggression, just no interest, either.

There would be no butt sniffing today.

"So close and yet so far away."

One by one, we made our goodbyes. Pulling away from the farm, I smiled through my tears. We had made great friends. Another adventure awaited.

We drove to Cooperstown, where I had made camping reservations, in about four hours. The winding back roads gave me another opportunity to appreciate New York’s beauty, it’s fertile farmlands, the charming homes spaced amongst the acreage.

Since it was after 5 p.m., the park ranger had left. Instructions said we could go to the cabins and check in the next day, so off we went. The place was gorgeous - dense with trees, fresh air, rustic cabins. This would be a perfect resting place for a few days.

Unfortunately, there were no bathrooms. Or cell service. One maybe I could have lived with. Both were unacceptable. We hightailed it out of there and I frantically scanned Gidget for hotels in the area. Most of them were independent and I imagine, wouldn’t accept dogs.

Finally, Gidget came up with a Super 8 in Norwich, so we spent another hour driving to our new home. The hotel was located right off the highway, across from a dairy bar, and down the road from a charming little downtown area. This would do.

I stopped for a little carb comfort at Pasquales, an authentic pizzeria complete with brusque, yet sweet waitresses, talk of the Yankees, and accents I’ve only previously heard on “The Sopranos.” It was family run - the waitress called the wiry, tattooed gentleman tossing pizza “Pops.“ I loved it. The pasta with red sauce and sausage was delish, too. We drove to the dairy bar, got a soft serve, and called it a night.

The next day was fairly uneventful, so I could catch up on my writing and other tasks. Loren and I took a lunch break, ending up at Hot Diggity Dog a few miles down the road, where they gave her a free frank of her own. Nice people - rescuers with a Pomeranian from a hoarding case, five cats, several rabbits, and fish.

Niagara Falls was our next destination, some five hours away. We took our time getting there, taking in the small villages and towns along the countryside, where many cows resided and more than one operating tractor was spotted. For sustenance and motivation, we stopped at Dunkin Donuts for a large iced tea and donut holes. Not sure if America runs on Dunkin, but NY sure seems to. They are as ubiquitous as Starbucks in California.

The town of Niagara Falls was not as I expected. Instead of a natural wonder backdrop, it was more of a tacky, Las Vegas strip without the grand hotels look. Miles of motels, strip malls, and tourist shops. Even the entrance to the park was glitzy. Crowded, too. The parking lot attendant suggested we come back in the morning, which sounded like a much better plan to me.

For our nature fix, we stopped along the Water Fowl Viewing area overlooking the Niagara River and took a mile long walk. We saw just one duck, skimming across the water, but that was fine. The river itself was something to behold, as was the sky.

Niagara Falls River

After checking into our hotel, we headed 12 miles to Buffalo, where my Roadfood book mentioned a must-try hot dog joint named Ted’s. I was also on a quest for frozen custard at the behest of my Signal editor, Michele Buttelman, who insisted I try this delicacy before leaving the East Coast. Serendipitously, an Anderson’s was right across the street from Ted’s, which was hopping on a Saturday night.

Lines snaked around the tables, almost to the door. I could hear the sizzle of the grill and smell the tantalizing aroma. I ordered a chili cheese dog, onion rings, and a loganberry juice and took it to the table outside. A spicy homemade hot sauce added a kick to the dog and the onion rings were amazing, a tangled, crispy mass of fried goodness (or badness, depending on how you look at it).

Saturday night at Ted's


When in Buffalo...

The frozen custard at Anderson’s was a find too - creamy, silky, yet somehow later than traditional ice cream.



Icy cold yummers

We returned to our hotel. Tired from all the driving and annoyed at not getting to see Niagara Falls yet, I was a bit grumpy. That was when Loren decided to circle our hotel at least ten times on our nightly poop walk. She made all the motions and I knew it was that time of the evening (when you spend 24/7 with anyone, you get to learn their habits), so I was getting grumpier by the second.

“Damn it, will you just poop?” I asked her. “I’m sick of this.”

She just kept going round and round, sniffing, stopping, but no action.

Finally, I sat down on a curb, threw down the leash and started crying. I was exhausted. I missed my own dogs, whom Wayde had sent pictures of that morning. I also missed him, my friends, my mountain home. I was sick of the hotels, the checking in, the unloading and reloading, the driving, the inconvenience of it all, not knowing anyone. All of it.

Loren just looked at me, her front legs crossed, confused, her amber eyes blinking fast.

“Look at all I’ve done for you and you can’t even poop for me? Is that too much to ask?”

More blinking.

I took a deep breath and stopped crying. I had lost it. Poor Loren. She was such a good sport about everything and here I was yelling at her like a complete freak. It wasn’t her fault. She had the right to take her time and poop where she wanted.

She finally did. We went back to the room, a bit estranged. Loren stretched out on the mattress as I got ready for bed. I put my face close to hers and looked her in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m an ass sometimes. I appreciate your patience with me.”

She sighed and we snuggled up together. Never go to bed angry, right?

Wayde had told me that night that seeing Niagara Falls would change my attitude and it did. We got there early, around 9 a.m., always the hot ticket for tourist spots. There was a smattering of people, but nothing crazy like the day before.

You could hear the water before seeing the falls. The Niagara River below was seafoam blue, a rainbow perched in its mist. Around the bend, the falls pounded their way to the river below, creating several more rainbows.

 
The falls

"You've seen one natural wonder, you've seen them all."

I took a deep breath and watched in awe. Nothing like nature to put you in your right place.

The park itself was magnificent - acres of manicured lawns, smaller rapids and falls to admire, a bridge that led to the opposite side of the falls, closer to Canada, for viewing. We spent an hour checking out everything that allowed dogs (there were some exhibits, movies, and tours that didn’t).

Niagara Falls Park

Loren, of course, was much more enthralled with the squirrels that teased her throughout our walk than the falls. She wasn’t scared of the water or the sound it made, which made me really proud. The girl can pretty much hang in any situation.

"Forget the falls...was that a squirrel?"

On our way back, I noticed several dog owners enjoying the trails, too. An elderly man sat with his black cocker spaniel, enjoying the view and talking to the dog. I waved and he waved back, an unspoken camaraderie between us.

I spoke too soon. I don’t hate New York. Just New York City.

We were ushered out of the city by a ominous thunderstorm while returning from our Central Park morning walk. What started as a light drizzle under gray skies turned into big, wet splotches that stuck to my glasses and obscured my vision. Everyone scurried about under umbrellas as Loren and I ran back to our hotel unprotected.

“I haven’t seen it turn black like this in years,” I heard a man say as we tried not to slip on the streets.

Both soaked to the bone, we made it to the Novotel and walked through the elegant lobby with as much dignity as possible. In our room, I toweled Loren off tenderly and tried to laugh it off.

“We’re getting the hell out of here, girlfriend,” I told Loren. “Back to the country, where we belong.”

We were only parked 1,000 or so linear feet from the hotel, but it still took us 25 minutes to get back to the Novotel and collect our luggage. It felt good to be back in my truck, though. You can take the girl out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the girl.

Longing for some green, it was a thrill to drive out of the congestion and into the lush, open landscape surrounding the Hudson. I thought of the flight that landed there. That must have been quite a ride.

“Tragedy” by the BeeGees came on the radio and I sang along with the high-pitched parts, enough to make anyone’s hair stand on end. Loren barely gave me a second glance. She was sitting up front with me, instead of snoring away in the back, out of petting reach. I laid my hand on her back and smiled, settling in for the day’s journey.

Our first stop was to meet Christelle, a Best Friends writer, in West Hartford, Connecticut, a two-hour drive that took us through an upscale side of New England.

Christelle was waiting for us in the parking lot and gave us a big hug. She knew what we’d been through in NYC. We settled on the patio and Christelle watched Loren so I could get some lunch. When I got back, Loren had her arms wrapped around Christelle’s knees, giving her a hug.

“So, why did you pick Loren out of all the dogs at Brittany to bring with you?” she asked me.

It was a trip being the subject rather than the interviewer.

“She’s just such a sweetheart,” I told Christelle. “I had a feeling she really loved people and would be well-behaved and want to snuggle up with me at night.” Boy, was I right.

I went on. “My second choice was Buffy, a big, black Lab and pit mix. She’s just about as sweet as Loren and has lived at the sanctuary practically her whole life,” I said. “Still, Loren was always my first choice.”

“She is a very sweet dog,” Christelle said, patting Loren on the head. “This is the first pit bull I’ve really had any interaction with.”

Suddenly, Loren was straining on her leash and whining, a most unusual behavior. She had spotted a squirrel, the first of many during our lunch. It’s one of the only times on the trip that she got visibly anxious. Once the squirrels were out of the picture, she settled down and laid by our feet.

Christelle and I talked about the trip and her involvement with East Coast Dachsund rescue. She has a 16-year old Dachsund named Simon, whom she adopted at eight years old. “It took him a while to adjust because he was a puppy mill survivor, but once he did, he was a very happy dog,” Christelle said.

Two hours went by very quickly. This tends to happen when animal welfare people come together - never a shortage of conversation.

"Nice to meet you...wait...was that a squirrel?"

We bid Christelle goodbye and went on our way to Amenia, New York, to meet the women of Animal Farm Foundation, a 400-acre pit bull rescue and training center that had invited us to stay for a few nights. Their mission is to restore the image of the American Pit Bull Terrier and to protect them from discrimination and cruelty.

Crossing into New York from Connecticut, I was struck by the beauty of this state. Signs dotted the road, announcing that some areas had been established in the 1700s. The pastoral scenery was breathtaking, especially when we pulled up to the Animal Farm Foundation.

The picturesque property boasted a massive red and white main residence, with several smaller houses and barn structures placed throughout the acreage.
 

Side view of Animal Farm Foundation

I started pulling up to the main house when my cell phone rang. It was Stacey Coleman, AFF’s manager.

“Am I going the wrong way?” I laughed.

“Yes, you need to turn around and head the opposite way. We’ll be waiting for you,” Stacey said. I could hear the smile in her voice.

Three women were standing outside a grey, two-story apartment, waving us down. We got out of the truck and Stacey engulfed me in a big bear hug. I was going to like it here.

Our AFF welcome crew - Stacey, Courtney & Caitlin

She, Courtney, kennel manager and trainer, and Caitlin, assistant, fussed over Loren before showing us to our apartment, located under another employee’s house. It had a separate room with a doggy door and kennel for Loren, plus a bed room for us both to share, bathroom, small kitchen, and laundry facilities. Nirvana.

“Do you want to go on a tour or settle in? We’re having dinner at my house around 6:30,” Stacey said.

I opted to settle in as Courtney offered to feed Loren. She did it in a unique way, though, stuffing the wet and dry mixture into a series of Kong rubber toys.

“We like to make our dogs work for their food,” Courtney said. She used to be a dolphin trainer and has been at AFF since October. “This is a great enrichment technique for dogs who spend time in kennels.”

Wow. I’m going to have to bring this back to Brittany, I thought. Pam, the kennel worker there, is always looking for ways to keep the dogs entertained and this could be very effective. It was just one of many tips I was to learn over the next 48 hours.

Courtney drove us to Stacey’s house, located about 10 minutes away from the AFF property. She is the proud mother of Brisby, a handsome brindle pit mix. His Christmas photo was posted next to her speedometer.

Stacey’s house is a charming, wood-sided two-story that smelled heavenly when we entered. She was making lasagna and garlic bread. Yeah. A home-cooked meal.

One by one, Stacey introduced me to her pack of six dogs. Gertie came first.

“She hopped in my car eight years ago and changed my life,” Stacey said.

At the time, Stacey was working in Indianapolis. At lunch time one day, a co-worker was terrified to find a dog chasing after the fast-food sack in his hand. Stacey called the dog over and it promptly jumped into her car.

The dog was a one-year old female pit bull, suffering from mange. With hardly any fur to protect her, Gertie, as she came to be known, was bleeding from her skin, which was covered in sores.

“I had two dogs and couldn’t possibly take her home,” Stacey said, rolling her eyes. “So I took her to the Humane Society and told them to treat her for whatever she needed. I would pay for it and help find her a home.”

The humane society refused, slating Gertie for euthanasia and letting her suffer unmedicated in a kennel. Why? Because she was a pit bull and thereby unsuitable for adoption.

“One kennel worker tried rubbing bacon grease on her to ease her suffering, because that’s what his father had taught him to do,” she said. “He was the only who attempted to help.”

When Stacey decided to adopt Gertie, she was told by the shelter that she couldn’t because she had lost all rights when surrendering the dog. That’s when she brought in a lawyer. One week later, Stacey was the proud owner of her first pit bull, after signing extensive paperwork releasing the shelter from any liability.

Gertie has proven to be the soft touch in her pack, nursing foster kittens back to health and often acting as peacemaker for the rest of her dogs, including Franklin, a high-strung, very sweet Schnauzer.

“We call him the trailer park Schnauzer, because we don’t know what he’s mixed with,” Stacey said.

Then there’s Rudy, a black lab mix, and Josephine, a golden shepherd mix who inadvertently bit off Stacey’s pinky finger when she had to break up a dog fight. Oggy, a sweet little fluffy dog, constantly hugs your legs for attention, while Petunia, a fawn and white pit bull, shares a separate space in the house with one of Stacey’s five cats.

“The other dogs pick on her,” Stacey said. “But Petunia and the cat get along great.”

Six dogs, including two pits, living in a house with five cats? How did she manage that?

“The cats know they run the house. I never let the dogs get too aggressive or assertive with them, otherwise it would never work,” she said.

At bedtime, the dogs settle in with Stacey and her husband Mike in their room, all of them on the floor in dog beds except for Oggy, who scored a spot with the humans. The cats have free reign.

After the delicious vegetarian lasagna, salad, garlic bread, and coffeecake, Courtney drove me back to the apartment. I met Rich, who shared the upstairs with Ashley, his girlfriend and AFF trainer.

There was a warty, glistening frog near the door.

“He comes here every night,” Rich said.

Ugh. Afraid of pits? No. Frogs? Yes. I inched my way around the creature, hoping not to touch its slimy skin. Talk about the heebie jeebies.

Loren was happy in her dog room, having eaten half of the food out of the Kongs. While I got ready for sleep, she ran to and fro, in and out of the doggy door, which she guarded until I called her in the bedroom.

She immediately jumped on the twin bed, giving me approximately one-third of it to sleep on throughout the night. We snuggled tight.

I stroked her wrinkled forehead, making out the red and white markings in the twilight. She and I sighed at the same time. I love her, I thought. I’m going to miss her very much when this is all over.

The next morning, Loren and I took a half-hour walk through the property, watching a line of geese make their way into a shimmering pond to join up with the other birds gracefully skating across the water. I admired the rolling hills, the wide skies, the peace of it all.

"So much grass, so little time..."

At  9 a.m., I met Stacey and Caitlin at the office/training facility, which doubles as a house for a couple of dogs. Most of the dogs here have their own “room,” with a bed and toys, with a doggy door that leads to a large, fenced enclosure.

Vincent, a fawn and white male, just one year old, was out and about when I came in. A shelter rescue with big, pointy ears, Vincent roamed the office area excitedly, tearing into a squeaky, thrashing it about like a shark, stopping only for occasional affection breaks.

"I'll get you, squeaker!"

Ashley took Vincent into the training room and worked with him on a technique called shaping. For example, throwing an object on the floor and getting a dog to touch it without pointing to it, but rather giving the treats and positive reinforcement when they get anywhere near it. Eventually, the dog figures it out.

“Shaping requires them to think more. It’s a really good mental exercise for the dogs,” Ashley said.

"That was fun!"

Within minutes, Vincent was following Ashley’s suggestion of touching her right and left palms with his noise. Every time he did, she’d make a noise with her clicker and give him a treat.

Each treat has a value - low is kibble, medium is a chunk of dog food roll, and high is something really pungent, like dried liver, salmon, or beef. The stinkier the better.

Punky, a brown and white charmer, was next. This incredible girl can actually jump rope!

 
"You should see my double dutch!"

Training time over, we delivered Punky back to her room, which was decorated in a cheerful Hawaiian theme in a standalone building with a large yard outside the kennel. It even had a custom pit painting by Beth, an AFF employee, above her futon. Pretty stylish.


"Welcome to my pad!"

Courtney took us to “downtown,” which was a more traditional kennel setting, with wire enclosures inside and a place to potty outside.

“Some dogs are actually calmer in a kennel where they can see other dogs and have more stimulus,” she explained.

Scarface was one such resident, a one-year old male with a serious bulldog underbite and a lot of character. We petted him through the gate.

"You dirty rat...you  killed my brother!"

Overall, Animal Farm Foundation has about 20 dogs at any given time, mostly pulled from NYC shelters. These are some very lucky pit bulls, as AFF not only has killer accommodations, but they spend every day training, socializing, and exercising the dogs.

“We don’t subscribe to the myth that every pit bull is dog aggressive,” Stacey said. “Many of our dogs enjoy play dates together and can be housed with other dogs, should potential adopters already have one.”

Since we had plans to go into the city for an art exhibit and were leaving at 2:30 p.m., Ashley and Stacey had me get Loren for a brief training session in the office area. She responded very well to the clicker and was soon sitting on command.

"How's this, Aunt Stacey?"

Outfitted with a clicker and treat-filled pouch, after Ashley demonstrated how, I had Loren sitting and stopping to make eye contact with me in no time. It was shocking how easy this was, it just required patience and time.


"I see you, Aunt Michelle...and the treat!"

“This is a great technique for when you’re walking and she gets excited about another dog or distracted by something,” Ashley said. “You can have her make eye contact with you and get refocused.”

“What if you only have time to do this for a few minutes, three or four days a week?,” I asked, thinking of the Brittany dogs and how beneficial this could possibly be for them.

“Any time you spend doing this for the dogs is good for them. It not only helps make them more adoptable, the mental stimulation is tiring for them, which is helpful when they spend a lot of time in a kennel,” Ashley said.

I switched from my standard uniform of jeans, tennis shoes, and a hoodie to new dark jeans, my Kenneth Cole strappy sandals, and a sweater, topped off with my $5 “Pashmina” scarf for our trip to NYC. The SUV contained me, Stacey, Caitlin, and Bernice Clifford, the lead behaviorist at AFF, who supplied us with her trusted GPS, Sally. (Everyone seems to name their GPS - my parents is Barbie and mine is Gidget).

We were off to attend “Dutch Seen: New York Rediscovered,“ an exhibit of contemporary Dutch photographers at the Museum of the City of New York. Charlotte Dumas, one of the artists, had photographed several NYC shelter pit bulls, including an AFF rescue named Gretel.

First, we had dinner at Hanratty’s, a leather and wood neighborhood restaurant that has been in business since 1917. I had the Cajun chicken and pasta with broccoli rabe, not finishing much after scarfing down too many hot, fresh rolls with butter. The rest of the table went vegetarian. Unsurprisingly, many animal welfare workers and volunteers don’t eat meat.

“What has been the most surprising thing for you about AFF?,” Stacey asked me.

I paused for a moment. “I knew it was going to be amazing, but I’m just so impressed with how much time and effort you spend on each dog,” I said. “I didn’t realize the training was going to be so extensive.”

I thought again.

“That and how nice the facilities are for each dog. They have it better than a lot of people,” I said.

They laughed.

We had our leftover pasta wrapped up so we could try to find a homeless person to give it to. Stacey and I were on the lookout as we made our way back to the museum.

Turns out, she used to help refugees from other countries find housing and work when she lived in Indianapolis, including a Pakistani woman and her five children. Stacey took in the latter personally when the mom fell ill and was hospitalized.

“For how long?,” I asked.

“Oh, about three weeks,” she said.

“That’s a long time!”

Stacey shrugged her shoulders.

“Wow,” I said, impressed. “You’re a chronic philanthropist, huh? I mean, a chronic do-gooder…”

“When I see wrong in the world, I just can’t sit back and accept it. I have to do what I can to change it,” Stacey replied.

We left our pasta on a park bench, having found no candidates along the route. Inside the museum, the rich, the powerful, and the beautiful were mingling in a sea of Chardonnay and designer labels. Tall blondes with amazing bone structure abounded, as the audience was largely Nordic. It was like something out of “Sex and the City.”

I put my camera around my neck and observed through the lens, always more comfortable in the worker bee role than making any attempt to be social. Not in this crowd, anyway.

The photographs ranged from the whimsical to the sad to the serious. Dumas’ dog portraits were very powerful, illustrating the tough lives these dogs led in a single snapshot.

Onlooker at Dumas' exhibit

Stacey, Bernice, and Caitlin were all very proud of the Gretel portrait, which represented a Guardian Angel over the other dogs, as she had found a home and new life.


AFF's Bernice, Stacey & Caitlin with Gretel's portrait

The epilogue for the rest were a mystery.

As we read the artist’s biography and exhibit copy, the mood turned somber. In the text, was the phrase “many given up because of their aggressive nature.”

“Oh, this is unacceptable,” Stacey said. “I am going to get this changed.” (She did, the next morning. The museum took her call, apologized, promised to fix it, and even offered an opportunity to bring the AFF dogs up for a night. Score another victory for Stacey.)

An impromptu visit to NY Animal Care & Control shelter was next. Bernice wanted to see if there were any dogs there they might be good AFF candidates.

I struggled on whether or not to go in. I hate shelters. It always makes me cry to see the dogs in cages, many without any hope. In the end, I decided to accompany them. I am a journalist. I have to see things like this and report back my findings. Whether I like them or not.

A volunteer was walking a large brown boxer/pit mix on the street. I called over, “Handsome boy.”

“He needs a home,” the volunteer responded.

I smiled in recognition. Always working the adoption angle.

We went to the adoption area, which was located at the back of the building. First dog I saw was an older black pit with a scarred face, wagging her tail. Second dog I saw was a black and white pit. Third dog a red and white. And so on.

Pretty pitty awaiting adoption at NYC Animal Care & Control

At least 80% were pits or pit mixes. Dogs that look like pit bulls, as AFF likes to say. That can include up to 25 different types of breeds including boxers and American bulldogs. A playful chocolate pit caught Bernice’s eye.

Unfortunately, we weren’t done yet. Bernice led the way to the intake area. While there, we saw a woman taking home a mature cat and tiny little kitten she had adopted. She was very excited about her new family members, named Ginger and Bella.

A happy family at NY's Animal Care & Control

Down the hall, dogs were separated in a series of kennels for temperament evaluation, since they have to be determined eligible for adoption. Again, pit after pit after pit, with a few fluffy shepherd mixes thrown in.

Dogs awaiting assessment at NYC Animal Care & Control







There’s also a quarantine area for sick animals and lastly, a death row area for those scheduled to be euthanized. I only made it to the third door down, which had double decker kennels. An old black cocker spaniel was on top of a pit bull. I knew who would be more likely to survive.

I ran back to the lobby area, where I wasn’t the only one crying. A young girl, her lip pierced, was holding a stuffed Rottweiler, silent tears running down her face as her mother and boyfriend brought in a trash-bag wrapped dog. They were there to have their Rottweiler cremated.

A volunteer came over to me, bending down to look me in the eye.

“Are you OK?”

“No, I’m not,” I replied. “I just hate this.”

She nodded in sympathy.

“We are a horrible species,” I said. “Humans are a horrible species to let this happen.”

“I know,” the volunteer said. Her name was Megan. “I know.”

I sighed. “I really admire you for what you do here, though. I volunteer at a no-kill shelter because I can’t handle this.”

“Yeah, it can be really hard,” she said. “I’m signing up for the compassion program, but I’m not sure if I‘m going to be able to do it or not.”

Megan went on to explain that the compassion program is for the euthanasia-scheduled dogs, where they get to go for extra walks, have a nice dinner, and be doted on by volunteers before they are killed.

I sobbed harder. What a beautiful and ugly thing.

She also told me about the “Safety Net” program, aimed towards public housing tenants of NYCHA, or New York City Housing Authority, who have recently been ordered to turn in their over-25 pound dogs. Some feel it was just a cover to rid the area of pit bulls without instituting an actual breed ban.

According to Megan, pits were being turned into the shelter in droves.

“I have a lady who has two pits she’s desperately trying to keep. I told her I’ll do everything I can to help her,” Megan said. “We can often put dog owners in touch with legal resources and avoid them having to turn in their pet.”*

Our conversation was interrupted by a massive, golden pit bull mix dragging a cop into the lobby. He had a four-inch wide leather belt around his neck, a makeshift leash or chain that looked like it had been snapped off at the end.

"Got any food back there?"

“Yeah, we found him knocking over trash cans and breaking into stores, eating Vanilla Wafers,” the male cop said, struggling to manage the dog. “Poor guy. Happens all the time. People get puppies, then they don‘t want the responsibility, so they just dump ‘em in the streets…or they get free from their chains and run away.”

I watched the golden dog taken away by shelter workers, who were very kind and genial with him. Perhaps for some dogs, a shelter is a step up. At least they have, well, shelter, food, and attention. For however long. I prayed this awkward boy would get a second chance with a family that would love him, not treat him like a burden or a piece of trash to be disposed of.

"On to better things, I hope."

On the way home, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “I’m sorry,” I said through sniffles.

“No need to apologize here,” Stacey said. “We all get it.”

“What is it that’s specifically bothering you?” Bernice asked gently.

“How do you choose? How do you choose who’s going to live and who’s going to die? How do you walk through those kennels, knowing most of those dogs won‘t make it out alive?”

Bernice looked out the window, pausing before she replied.

“I try to look at it from a positive perspective. This shelter has improved so much over the last few years. They used to all be double decker kennels, with no protection at the bottom and lips on the edges that would often break the dogs legs when they were being pulled out,” she said. “The staff and volunteers have changed, too. They used to be somewhat indifferent, and now it seems like they really care.”

She continued. “It’s not just the conditions that have improved, but the adoption rates have jumped from 5 percent to about 45 percent for the pit bulls and 70 percent for overall breeds,” she said.

“That’s great,” I acknowledged, still sad.

The car was quiet for a moment.

“You can only do so much,” Bernice said. “At least our dogs get a chance at a whole new life.”

So did Loren, thanks to the Brittany Foundation. She was pulled from a high-kill shelter in Lancaster, California, just another pit bull scheduled for death, before being rescued.

At bedtime, I gave Loren the new woobie that Stacey and the rest of girls included in a goody bag for us. She snuggled right up with it and went to sleep.

  
"New friends and a new woobie...life is good...nighty night..."

*For more information, visit www.nycacc.org/safetynet.htm or call (917) 468-2938.

You know this shirts with “I (Heart) New York?” They should make one with “I (Unhappy Face) New York,” just for me.

This place is insane! Besides the $20 worth of tolls it takes to get here from Philadelphia and the never-ending $8 Holland Tunnel and the rude drivers and impenetrable throngs of people, there is absolutely no grass in this city! Where is a girl like Loren to do her business?

Before actually arriving in Manhattan, I got all teary-eyed when we saw the skyline from the highway. I never really thought I would make it here, all the way from California. There’s something magnificent about those skyscrapers poking their way heavenward, a sense of promise and excitement. Knowing that so many people started their American journey here from other countries.

Start spreading the news...Michelle & Loren are in NYC!

After going through the long, dark Holland Tunnel, where I was the only person (dork) who honked, we made some twists and turns and were quickly on Broadway and in the thick of things. The streets were teeming with people, coming from every direction, of every shape, size, and nationality. Never have I seen such crowds, not at the U2 concert at Dodger Stadium, not at Santa Monica Beach on the most perfect day, not at the anti-Iraq war protest in downtown Los Angeles. This was a different entity altogether.

Sunday afternoon madness

Then there was the driving. We made our way through traffic that doesn’t obey signals or appreciate a sense of order. Flashes of yellow from all four corners, honking, pushing, squeezing into impossibly tight spots, cutting me off. I quickly realized it was kill or be killed and so fortified by a Venti Starbucks green tea and lemonade, I jumped into this real-life game of Frogger with an intensity that surprised me. Soon, I was honking, cussing, and acting like a native.

Our destination was Happy Paws Pet Resort, which thank God had it’s own parking “lot,” a strip of asphalt the size of residential driveways in Southern California, but at least I didn’t have to find a spot on the street.

Loren was greeted by a quarter of staff and volunteers from Animal Alliance Foundation, who were anticipating our visit. They were holding a microchip clinic for the area, which attracted 26 participants. Barbara and Shawn Tolan are brother and sister, their father, Tim, was also there, as was Daniel Rivera, a vet tech. All are pit bull lovers and owners.

"You may hate NY, but I kinda like it here..."

“People contact me all the time about neglect situations. My sister’s neighbor had a pit bull puppy that were they threatening to throw out in the streets when they moved,” Daniel said. “I asked them to bring her to me instead. I could tell she’d been abused, she was hand shy and got scared over loud noises.”

The dog is now one-years old, a red-nosed pit named Ginger who is clearly the apple of her new daddy’s eye if the way her treats Loren is any indication. After Loren was groomed by a kind lady named Lisa, a California expatriate who did the service for free since she is a rescue dog, Loren was sitting in Daniel’s lap, belly exposed, getting kisses and belly rubs at the same time.

"Nirvana!"

While Loren was getting her bath, I took to Broadway, home of Bloomingdales and Dean and Deluca, and shopped like a girly girl, picking up a pair of dark Levis, two shirts, a strappy pair of Kenneth Cole heels, and a pair of earrings for $100! Of course, I had to try a sidewalk hot dog. It was pretty good, but they didn’t have chili…or cheese…so I got mustard and sauerkraut instead.


The quintessential NY street meal

At one point, there was a gorgeous brunette couple on the street in front of me, the man even prettier than the woman, while on the sidelines, an elderly man searched the trash bins for food, his tongue sticking out. Models and madmen, mixed in with moms who push strollers in high heels.

Though Loren had a hard time parting with her new friends at Happy Paws, I was ready to check into our hotel. Two families from North Carolina were parked in front of me, leaving me a tiny wedge to sit and wait for them to unload pillows, a cooler, and a fan, as well as enough luggage for three weeks. Minutes passed - and the owners of the Honda Civic I was parked precariously close to arrived - unhappy and impatient.

One of the southern ladies helped me maneuver out of the tight spot and avoid hitting the Honda. Sigh. By the time the gray-haired Italian doorman came over to help me unload, I wanted to unload more than the baggage. How about that I hated his city and wanted to go home to California, where parking is plentiful and most people don’t drive with murderous intent?

“That’s a good looking dog,” he said, immediately putting me at ease and focused on something other than my extreme annoyance.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I had a dog that looked just like her, but he passed away,” he said. “His name was Stallion, because he was a magnificent animal. There will never be another like him.”

The doorman became my fast friend, directing me to the parking lot across the street where I had to leave my car ($40 per day!), as well as some places to take Loren for potty breaks.

People here consider planters as parks - my kind doorman and two others directed me to streets with nothing resembling lawns, just little patches of dirt with a few vines, some were even fenced! WTF?

After two miles of this, I stopped and started to cry. I hated this place. I wanted to go home. I wanted my boyfriend, my dogs, and people that would smile when they saw me, not look away, if they bothered to look at all. I wanted to be on my hiking trail in the mountains, with nothing but the sounds of nature to soothe me, silly little Buster trotting free at my side. I wondered why the hell I was here in the first place.

I took a deep breath and composed myself. Loren was waiting patiently by my side, panting from all the exercise and, I’m sure, the manic energy that surrounded us both. For a country girl, she took to the city with a fair amount of ease - stopping at lights (unlike the rest of the masses), avoiding the grates whenever possible, and, when we were at the hotel, deciding finally that elevators were not the enemy and trotting right in.

She even managed the revolving doors as if she‘d been doing it all her life. Loren laid on the cool marble floor when we checked in. Two guys called to her from the bar and she would’ve gone to have a drink with them, had I let her. Hussy.

We finally went to Central Park, seven blocks away, because Loren will poop on the street, but not pee (!). I was so excited when I saw the actual grass - then I saw fences. The grass was gated off! At least for the first 100 yards. I wanted to scream and probably should’ve. No one would have noticed anyway.

"Go ahead and scream...I've got your back!"

I may hate NY, but I love Loren. Her happy, toothy grin always brings me back to gratitude. She seems to be having a good time, so I decided to adopt her attitude, but it’s hard because I also have to think like a dog - which means being on hyper-alert about what’s in front of me and look out for other critters on the horizon. I can’t ever relax. No wonder she sleeps 20 hours a day.


"Stressed? Fugudaboutit!"

Since the city doesn’t take kindly to pooches eating on patios with their owner, I ordered a falafel combo plate from a friendly street vendor. He had the full set up - scooping up the falafel mixture and frying it on the spot, adding grilled veggies atop saffron rice, and big squirts of yogurt and hot sauce. Best falafel ever. Brought it back to the room and watched the action at Times Square from the comfort of my tenth-story room. We watched the Tony Awards on TV, which where taking place just a few blocks over.

Central Park was our first stop this morning. Fairly uneventful, even with an unleashed Weimer Reiner playing a little too close by and a pug that had free run of the paved area. Several homeless men and women lined the benches, looking on with dead eyes. The streets were alive with the sound of traffic, sirens, and construction at 7:30 a.m.

At 10, we met with Jennifer Bristol at Animal Haven, a no-kill rescue in NoHo.


"Who is that big guy trying to steal my thunder?"

Encased in warm wood, the store front had an elegant feel. Tiny kittens played in the window display, which rapidly caught Loren’s attention.


"How much are those kittens in the window?"

This SoHo shelter had a loft-like feel, three stories, with dogs and cats housed on three floors. The dogs get walked four times a day by a roster of volunteers and are also worked with by an in-house trainer.

I asked her if Loren would suffer as a result of being so close to me for seven weeks, then being returned to a kennel.

“We’ll she’ll have some separation issues at first, just like your dogs would if they spent every waking minute with you and then it stopped,” she said. “But she’ll adjust. They’re not like us. You’re doing here a lot of good, being exposed to different situations.”

Big smile.

Right now, Animal Haven has 19 dogs, including a two litters of adorable lab and mixed breed puppies, as well as 20 cats. A beautiful female Aussie mix looked up at me with her one blue and one brown eye.

“She’s going home tomorrow with her new family,” Jennifer said proudly. They have a high adoption rate, including the pit bulls they take in from city shelters and owner surrenders.

They also have a store that carries animal food, toys, and bedding, and encourages customers to bring their small dogs in for playtime.

“It’s a way to get the community in rescue involved without beating them over the head,” Jennifer said. “I bought dogs 15 years ago. I didn’t know that there was another way. People come in here and say, ’I didn’t know I could get a Maltese or a Pug through shelters!’”

Steve Gruber from Animal Alliance, who had initially invited us to Animal Haven, and Carrie Hyman of Silver PR had also come down to meet Loren. Both sat on the floor and loved on Loren as we talked rescue.

 
"Rescue people rule!"

We shared a cab ride back.

 
"Does the paparazzi never stop?"

Looks like we’ve made new friends in New York. I guess it’s not all bad here.

  
"You're still my best GF, Aunt Michelle!"

 (P.S. Awesome news - Loren has an adoption application pending in Santa Clarita, close to The Brittany Foundation, where she lives. Nancy, the founder, emailed all of us volunteers today. The home seems to be a good one - retired lady, previous pit owner. She knows Loren is on our journey and can’t wait to meet her when we get back! Yeah!J )

Weather, like one’s health, is often taken for granted until it’s not going your way. The 320-mile drive to Baltimore was marked by rain which, if the newscasters are accurate, should continue until Saturday morning. When we leave.

We spent yesterday in Wytheville, VA, after leaving Asheville. During our last walk in the Asheville motel parking lot, I noticed a maid looking at Loren with a smile on her face.

“Want to meet her?” I asked.

Not that she had much choice. Loren was already on her way for an introduction, pulling me along for the ride.

“You’ve got a pretty dog,” she said, leaning down and letting Loren kiss her.

“She’s not my dog,” I replied. “Her name’s Loren and she lives at a no-kill rescue in California. We’re just traveling across country together to promote animal adoption and pit bull awareness.”

The maid’s name was Amy and she was interested in adopting Loren. When she asked how much the fee was, I said $150 and she said that was a lot.

“There are plenty of dogs like Loren at local shelters looking for a family,” I said. “They usually only charge $30 to $50 and they’re fixed and everything.”

Amy shook her head. “That’s true,” she said. “This one just seems like a real sweetheart.” She had OZZY tattooed on her left hand and more tattoos up her forearm and on her neck. My inner hesher grinned in recognition. Back in the day, I admired that look, I just never had the balls to get inked.

As we walked away, Amy called after us.

“That’s a real awesome thing you’re doing,” she said.

I got tears in my eyes. “Well, she’s an awesome dog,” I stammered.

The trip to Wytheville was uneventful, 188 miles of farmlands, brick buildings, and white church steeples, rolling hills with farmhouses nestled within. It was beautiful, but as my boyfriend said the other night, “There’s a price to pay for all that green.” The price is lots of rain, kind of odd for June, at least in Southern California. I just assumed every day on this trip would be sunny, but brought along a few hoodies just in case.

For dinner, I hit Main Street and found Dukes BBQ - “Best BBQ in Wytheville.” It was pretty darn good…and cheap! Only $3.99 for a pulled pork sandwich, which in my opinion, was better than the brick pit - same tender, melt in your mouth, except this was smothered in a tangy sauce.


Dukes BBQ

Doing my usual food photography attracted a weird reaction from the two couples eating across from me.

“You wanna take our picture?” One woman asked me sarcastically, followed by a high-pitched cackle. She had a really bad perm and I imagine, wasn't too popular in high school.

“Um, no…I just like taking food pictures,” I responded calmly, proud of myself for not adding “It’s none of your f’ing business.”

They all stared at me as if I were an alien life form and I continued snapping. Whatever. A few minutes later, a pastor came to join them for dinner and once again I was struck by the hypocrisy of churchgoers who don't exactly act Christian.


Speaking of...one of Wytheville's many churches

I should sic Loren on them, I thought, and looked out to see her faithfully waiting for me in the truck, sitting in the passenger seat, her little red and white head staring intently into the window.

Getting up early with Loren is a challenge. The girl loves to sleep in, preferring to snuggle and get pet for a half hour before we do the potty thing. We left for Baltimore at 10:15, an hour later than I intended.

"Just hit snooze one more time..."

More green, brick, and farmhouses awaited us as we passed through the rest of Virginia. We stopped in Harrisburg to get gas and I let Loren out for a break. As we headed out for the grass, a woman with bleached blonde hair spotted Loren and made a scared noise, followed by an “Ooh…” which sounded more like boo.

“She’s friendly,” I said.

The lady kept moving and made another “ooh…” which really pissed me off.

“God, she’s just a dog!” I said and hurried along, as mad as a mother with a handicapped child that draws unwanted attention. It incenses me that people think they know Loren with one look. “Oooh, Pit Bull, Bad.” It’s so ignorant. Especially since Loren's demeanor is so gentle.

We didn’t get to Baltimore until after 5 p.m. We checked in but our room wasn’t quite ready, so we sat in the truck and checked email as the rain pounded against our windshield. I looked at the back seat and patted Loren’s booty.

“You’re a good friend for putting up with this,” I told her.

"Are we there yet?"

We went closer to downtown so I could get to a meeting, not just to stay sober but for my sanity. I needed human contact. Of course, I forgot to write down the exact address, so I got lost and blew a half hour. Along the way, we got to view some very cool Baltimore architecture - rows of town homes, with absolutely no space between them, and incredible churches that must date back hundreds of years.

Scenes of Baltimore

It felt good to connect at the meeting, even though Loren set off the alarm twice.

I felt I owed Miss Thang my company after her patience today, so I picked up takeout at the Chicken N Trout. How could you not be intrigued by that name? I got an order of wings, mac n’ cheese, and collard greens. The woman ahead of me had a plastic Wal-Mart bag around her coiffure.

Tasty takeout...

The food was pretty good, if not a little fattening. Hey, I had Grape Nuts and a peach for breakfast! Tomorrow, I will eat a salad…and some crab cakes…what else is there to do but eat if it rains all day?

  
"Goodnight!" 

I have these theory about vacations. The first third goes by in slow motion, the second third in real time, and the last third in fast forward. We are about one-third in and it seems things are moving along at a much quicker pace.

Take today. We woke up at 9 a.m. - yikes! That is way late for this early bird, but I was up until 11:30 working on the blog last night, so I was beat. We didn’t leave for Blue Ridge Parkway until 11 a.m., after picking up a piece of vegetarian quiche, a double chocolate cookie, and some chai tea at Filo, an upscale bakery just a few blocks from our hotel. The USA roadbook mentioned that food and bathrooms were not plentiful on the drive, so I was prepared…for once.

It took about five miles for the scenery to get interesting, though a guy riding down the hill on a unicycle provided comic relief (serious cojones on that one!). Our first stop at the Bad Fork Valley had a 3,350 elevation and a panoramic view of the dense foliage. Loren became rooted to a certain spot, sniffing away. Until the bees came in. Once she heard the buzz, her ears perked right up and she ran, not walked, to the security of the truck.


"What's that smell?"


"Smells like BEES!"


"I'll BEE in the truck..."

Slowly we drove up the mountainside, as a feeling of peace and gratitude overcame me. Here it is, a Tuesday afternoon, and I’m seeing one of the most magnificent sights in the whole country. So lucky I am. Loren snoozed in the back, as usual, missing the beauty but enjoying it all in her own way.

Like a dork, I honked through every tunnel and there were a lot of them. I was in awe thinking of the work it must have taken to make that construction happen. Really, of the whole U.S. highway system and the many conveniences it provides for travelers. Having lived in Shanghai briefly, where it was uncommon to find a bathroom or a gas station outside any major city, I know how lucky we are here.

Many bicyclists were on the road, pedaling with purpose up the hill and through the tunnels, outfitted with luminescent safety strips. Wow. Not something you would ever catch me doing, but very admirable.

Cursed with the tiny Sathe bladder, within a half hour, I was looking for a restroom. This trait generally annoys the hell out of my human travel companions - I’m worse than a little kid. I saw the universal bathroom sign and pulled over to the Mt. Pisgah pass. We had to hike a bit to get there, but thankfully the trail was shaded and cool, so Miss Thang made it with no problems.

Until we got to the restroom. Since other people were in the area and I refuse to leave Loren alone, I dragged her in with me. And I mean drag. When Loren doesn’t want to do something, she’s not shy about it. She was the same way with the elevator at a hotel in Savannah. My willpower seems to be stronger than hers, however, so she sat with me in the stall as I went about my business.

“Sorry, Loren. This is how humans do it. We can’t just pee in the grass,” I told her.

She just looked at me with her big amber eyes and tried to crawl under the stall.

At the 4,000 foot elevation range, the scenery shifted a bit, the broccoli crown clusters sprouting pines that looked like asparagus stalks. Shades of pink and white imbued the flowers that grew at each stop. (This place must be spectacular in the fall). We stopped at Funnel Top, where I glimpsed the valley of trees below, and tried to get Loren to take a potty break or photo opp, but she wasn’t having it. The clouds had opened up with a crack and started raining.


Mountain flowers

“Are you crazy? It’s wet out there,” Loren seemed to be saying as I tried to coax her out of the truck. She stayed put. We went as far as the view sight for Cold Mountain (one of my favorite movies) before heading for city life again.


Cold Mountain...sigh

Gidget the GPS led us to the 151 on our way back, a tight, winding road with a canopy of trees that seemed to grow outward to greet visitors. A smell of citrus permeated the air. Six miles from Asheville, neighborhoods started springing up, from tiny trailers to big, beautiful wood homes, some with horses grazing on their vast lawns. I watched an ancient Australian Shepherd amble across its ample property and smiled.

Programmed to head to a bookstore, I was diverted by a Farmer’s Market sign and ditched the plan. This wasn’t your typical table and tent affair. Asheville’s Farmer’s Market is open daily, with two massive metal buildings overflowing with vendors selling nuts, meats, cheeses, produce, honey, ice cream, fudge, and just about anything else you can imagine. There was even a drive-thru section with more produce and also purveyors of plants, under an industrial-sized carport.

Farmer's Market outside


Farmers Market inside

I managed to get away with the purchase of a quart of strawberries, to be enjoyed for dessert tonight and breakfast tomorrow, and a $3 of cured meat similar to bacon that doesn’t have to be refrigerated, according to Kevin, the vendor - hopefully it‘ll survive the trip home. (FYI - North Carolina berries rival those from Oxnard, people - juicy, sweet, and farm fresh).


Kevin & his strawberries

After chit chatting about where I was from and telling him about our mission, he mentioned his sister had recently adopted a pit bull.

“She loves that dog. It’s changed her life,” he said.

Craving Asian, we drove downtown to a noodle house that was packed. No parking. Nor was there any place to park at any of the myriad restaurants. Tuesday night must be way hotter than Monday, because we found a place no problem last night.

Up and down Tunnel Street we went until I stumbled upon Café Azalea, tucked away in a little corner in a strip mall. There was a patio, too, so I could park and watch Loren in the car. It was another gem. (I love Asheville, an optimum mix of mountains and city, culture and nature. I could actually envision living here someday, if my man would consider it).

The meal started with a delicious bowl of lobster soup, light yet rich with onions and red peppers and bits of succulent lobster throughout…and the bread…forget about it! Crusty, warm, soft…they make it in-house and serve it with herb-infused olive oil. I ate it all.

I got my Asian fix from the incredibly spicy lettuce shrimp wraps, which were stuffed with fresh carrot and asparagus, it’s heat cut with a sweet and savory dipping sauce. Rounding things out was a bread pudding made with flaky croissant dough and finished with caramel sauce. Oh, yeah!


Bread pudding at Cafe Azalea

Loren had a big dinner herself, scarfing all her food down before launching into a spaz attack. This is only the second one she’s had on this trip - the first was at Mark & Julie’s. She runs around like a whirling dervish, jumping on furniture and sprinting back and forth. It’s pretty entertaining, a rapid departure from her usual ladylike self. For fun, I threw in her woobie, which she shook like the rag doll it is. We all have our moments.


"I'll get you, woobie!"


"I love you, woobie!"

(A special shout out to my crazy mountain sisters who almost convinced me that my friend Gail got married over the weekend - ha ha - YOU SUCK - and I love you.)

Loren & I were dropped off at River Street around 10:30 by a nice mechanic. We had about three hours to fill, so we set off for the waterfront. The streets are cobblestones in parts with stairs so steep it takes your breath away, architecture hundreds of years old. It’s a very cool place, with lots of parks and memorials built at every corner.

"Rolling, rolling, rolling on the river!"

Loren enjoyed the sights and sounds, stopping frequently for shade breaks. We found the Dockside Restaurant, which had not only a first-floor patio but misters (!) to offset the heat. The crab chowder was pretty good, the salad not so much. However, the homemade key lime pie was stellar - light, tart, creamy with a crumbly graham cracker crust. Very refreshing. Probably the best I’ve ever had.


A slice of cool, creamy refreshment.

Even better was the service. Our waitress, Melina, sat with Loren twice while I went to the restroom. That is a challenge when sightseeing with a dog - because I refuse to leave her tied up and alone. Besides stray dogs, my second biggest fear is her being dog napped. Which is kind of crazy - they can’t give away pit bulls at shelters - but you never know.


"Thanks for babysitting me!"

Melina told me she has a red-nosed pit, which she bought from a breeder - she was having second thoughts as she surveyed the scene, but the puppy she picked was so sick and run down, she felt in her own way that she was rescuing it.

Loren the charmer brought the hostess over a few times, who cooed at her. “I’m usually afraid of pit bulls, but this one’s so sweet,” I overheard her telling Melina. (She also chastised people walking by with McDonalds cups. “Oh no, you did not come to Savannah, Georgia and have McDonalds for breakfast?” she chastised them sweetly. Major points for the hostess).

I really wanted to go to the praline shop (!) but again, what to do with my canine companion? (It was probably for the best…I try to limit myself to one dessert a day…even on vacation). When I heard some live music, it felt like a good time to take a break.

The musician was playing a banjo and harmonica simultaneously, singing songs from Sublime, Third Eye Blind, and get this, Gloria Gaynor (“I Will Survive”). They all took on a Bob Dylan/Deliverance vibe which eventually grew monotonous, but for 15 minute or so, I was utterly charmed and sang along, even getting inexplicably teary-eyed.


"Freebird! Freebird!"


"You've got a problem with Freebird?"

Listening to the music, watching Loren panting happily as the river boats cruised by, stuffed full of tasty food, the sun playing on the water - major gratitude filled my heart for being able to take this trip.

A street artist named LaVon came over to meet Loren and sell me a rose which he made from a native sugar palm leaf. “What’s your name?” he asked me after getting the traditional Loren greeting (i.e. a hug and slobbery kiss).

"Wassup?"

“Michelle,” I replied.

He smiled. He was missing four front teeth. “Michelle! I’ve had experiences with Michelles. One that was great, one that was not so good,” he said and looked me square in the eye. “You look like one of the good ones. I can tell.”

LaVon, I’m sure, is a junkie. His eyes are glazed and yellow and he spoke in a shuffling cadence that I could barely understand as he quickly fashioned my rose with his leathery hands, explaining each step. It was beautiful, intricately wound and finished with a wispy flourish. The cost was $5 - “A special deal for you,” LaVon assured me. Uh huh. I gave him $1 tip. We all have to make a living.


A rose by any other name...

At 1:30 pm. I called the shop. It would be another hour. At 2:30 p.m. I called again. It would still be another half hour. I asked to be picked up and was told a mechanic would come get me. At 3 p.m. no mechanic and no call. I called again - the driver would be called and asked to call me. 3:15 p.m. I called again. The driver “had gotten into an accident.” Um, thanks for the call!

Was he f’ing kidding me? Was this a strange sort of Southern customer service ? I was slowly losing my patience. You don’t leave a California girl in a strange town without her car - it’s like taking Linus’ security blanket away.

“We can send a cab for you,” I was told.

“I don’t care who you send for me, just tell me who it is and when they’re going to be here,” I said.

“I’ll call you back,” he said.

Surprise, just a few minutes later, my car was done and the mechanic who dropped us off would pick us up. At 4 p.m. he came. By this time, I was pretty wiped out. Loren was good about the whole scene. She just hung out by my side and thwacked her tail whenever she spotted people, especially when they came over to pet her.

We had a two hour drive to Dublin, where Mark & Julie live. I was so tired, I periodically slapped myself to stay awake until I found a station playing really bad 80s music, which kept me enthralled wondering how the hell these songs could have ever been hits. (There’s a reason Taco’s “Putting on the Ritz” is not in heavy rotation. My pick for worst 80s song, however, is “Safety Dance“ by Wang Chung. Seriously…what were we on?)

It was7 p.m. when we pulled up to Mark & Julie’s lovely brick home. Loren ran right up to the front door. Inside, she sniffed around incessantly, intensely preoccupied with some of the stuffed animals Mark had killed while hunting. She was especially interested in the massive wolf.

“If that wolf was alive, you wouldn’t be so curious,” Julie told her.

After a delicious dinner of grilled chicken with a vinegar-based sauce, mozzarella, tomato, and avocado salad, grilled corn and roasted Vidalia onions (a special sweet variety native to Georgia), we went beyond their gorgeous 7-acre property, which shares a look with neighboring homes, to look at some of the other estates.

Mark stopped at the fence of their neighbors and called over their horses. They came trotting over and I looked at Loren, wondering if she would try to attack them. She stood up on the fence with Mark, watching intently. It was quite a scene, with the sun setting behind them.


"Hark..who goes there?"

Icould see the wheels turning in her head. “These creatures are a lot bigger than me,” she seemed to be thinking. “I better just let them be.” So she did, backing off.


"Whoa, Nellie!"

“Wow, Winston would always bark at the horses,” Julie said.

Winston was their lab who died in March at the age of 13. I could tell Mark and Julie missed him, as well as Hewey, a female who died just a few months before Winston. They treated Loren as if she were their own, constantly petting her and letting her kiss them. “She’s such a sweetie,” they both said repeatedly.

We had a great night’s sleep in the guest room, with some of the most divine pillows on earth, not getting up until 8 a.m. Julie and I had some cereal and a nice chat before I took a shower. Before I got in, I noticed Julie laying on the ground with Loren, stroking and talking to her. They were in the same position when I got out 20 minutes later.

I told Julie I’d be happy to ship Loren to them, should they be interested in adopting her. She just smiled at me - they travel too much to have a dog, I’d been told. (A girl can have hope…)

320 miles were ahead of us, a fairly long day of driving, so we bid Julie goodbye at 10 a.m. The drive was gorgeous - Georgia’s got grass for days and lush farmland for miles. We stopped for peaches on Hwy 441, the only fruit stand that would sell me half a basket, and picked up some candied pecans and BBQ sauce, too. The peach was so juicy, it squirted all over my clothes and ran down my hand. I needed a bib. It was perfect.


"Moving to the country, gonna eat me a lot of peaches..."

When the mountains of Asheville came into view, the trees so dense they looked like broccoli crowns in the distance, my heart stopped. It felt like home. Our hotel is pretty old-school, but in a charming, rather than grungy way. The air is fresh out here and there is plenty of grass for Loren to take her potty breaks on. Yeah.

On the tip of my “USA” guidebook, we went to look for Early Girl Eatery in the downtown area. It was closed, but there was a patio at Market Place Restaurant right down the road. What a serendipitous find. A $29, three-course prix fix menu that rocked my world.

A potato leek soup started the meal off - light and springy, with a bit of piquant pepper sauce, which when swirled into the soup, added a welcome bit of spice. The main course, a strip steak with blue cheese butter, was artfully arranged and even better than it looked. The meat was expertly grilled medium rare and finished with a bit of sea salt, the savory butter melding into the meat, which swam in a sea of creamy cauliflower puree. I groaned with delight.


A savory work of art

Loren, who is becoming quite the café society girl, looked at me and I couldn’t help myself - I sucked off the sauce and shared about five little pieces with her. It was the least I could do, considering how great she was being.

Dinner was finished with a molten chocolate lava cake with ice cream. Yeah, it was as good as it sounds, even better. It was all I could do to keep from licking the plate.

The chef, named Michelle, came out to greet us and I praised her effusively. It was so nice to see food this thoughtfully composed - especially from such a young chef. How could she be so talented already?

Michelle squatted down to pet Loren and told me about her own dog, a young Australian shepherd. “Someone dumped a box of 10 puppies on the road, where they weren’t found for over a week,” she said. “They were in pretty bad shape. I rescued one of them.”

An awesome chef and a dog person. We might just have to go back tomorrow night.

"Good steak...got any more?"

In the morning, we are going to explore the Blue Ridge Parkway, as early as possible so Miss Thang doesn‘t overheat. It’s not as humid out here and tonight it’s actually a little cool, so hopefully we can get a bit of hiking under our belts. I definitely need the exercise after all these decadent meals.

On a separate note, I have to share - I am getting so attached to Loren. I just adore her. She is just a fantastic dog, more so than I ever anticipated. For those who don’t know, I haven’t adopted her because of my two pit bull mixes, Sam and Buster, who have enough issues of their own without adding another pit in the mix. Sigh.

I wonder if I am doing more harm than good with this trip - making Loren think I am her person, then taking her back to a kennel. Or is that putting human psychology on an animal? Right now, we’re spending 24/7 together, so it‘s even more heightened that just bringing a dog home and resuming your everyday life. We’re joined at the hip.

I pray, pray, pray that someone is going to fall in love with Loren like I and most of the people along this trip have and give her the life she deserves. She has it pretty good at the Brittany Foundation, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not as ideal as a home of her own. Hopefully, Loren will have four or five worthy people to choose from waiting to adopt her when we return on July 5^th. That is my ultimate dream for her (and her kennel mates, too).

Until then, we’ll just continue to take it one day at a time and enjoy this incredible opportunity to see the country. You never know what tomorrow will bring.

 
"Are you my furr-ever family?"

Yesterday sucked, one of those days where little to nothing went right.

Endless driving. Motel room that smelled like cat pee. Motel clerks unwilling to help. Trying to find a meeting on a highway with no address. Finding said meeting 20 minutes before it starts. Dashing into a Chinese food place, thinking that will be my quickest bet. Marveling that it takes 15 minutes to make one order of Egg Foo Yung. Slopping said Egg Foo Yung down shirt and all over passenger seat in desperate attempt to finish in five minutes. Burning roof of mouth. Walking in late. Running out repeatedly when dog sets off car alarm - no less than five times in 45 minutes. Marveling at a Southern rainstorm, complete with lightning pyrotechnics against a color-shifting sky. Trying to sleep when the atmosphere is wet and heavy with humidity, despite the rambling air conditioner.

Through it all, Loren is a trooper. She never complains. I would complain if I were her. This sucks. This room smells. I don’t want Chinese food. Etc. That is why I took this trip with a dog. I knew there would be times that weren’t so joyous, times when things go wrong, times when things become downright irritating, which become exponentially worse with another frustrated human being by your side. Loren is almost unfailingly polite, except when she’s tracking a new smell or sees a cat. Then she becomes slightly pushy, as is her right.

Today was much better. We checked out of our hotel and found a cleaner one closer to the city. Top on our agenda was having lunch at Uncle Bubba’s Oyster House (Bubba is Paula Deen’s brother) with Mark & Julie, family friends that go back over 20 years. They are originally from the south, but lived in California for a few years. They and their daughters, Ashley and Marianne, were a welcome part of many vacations, camping trips, and BBQs when I was in my late teens. It must be over a decade since I’ve seen them last. They look great, still youthful and happy, pulling up on their Harley, which has seen them through 45 states.


"I wonder if they have room on their Harley for me?"

They greeted Loren warmly, even arranging for us to sit on the patio so she could join us. It was perfect - we had a little private shaded area all to ourselves, overlooking the shallow tides. A guitarist played classic rock, serenading us with Jimmy Buffett and Van Morrison songs.

The wait staff loved Loren, coming over to meet her and share their stories, from the waiter with the rescued black lab puppy to the waitress with a new bulldog “grandson.”

Mark ordered us two dozen steamed oysters as a starter. They were fresh from Galveston, their rough shells the size of flattened tennis balls.

"Who originally looked at this and thought, food?!" I pondered.

"The Indians," Mark said. "Then we saw what they were doing and tried it ourselves."

Thankfully, Mark shucked for the both of us (something this Yankee has never done). Topped with lemon juice, hot sauce, and a little melted better, the oysters were divine, briny, succulent, very easy going down. They were a great counterpart to the complimentary, crumbly little cornbread cakes, which were so moist they didn’t need any butter.


Oysterfest!

When it came around, I could barely tackle the huge bowl of shrimp and grits I ordered, an amazing dish: rich, creamy, studded with bits of smoky bacon, peppers, and onions, and overflowing with tender shrimp. I sighed looking at task in front of me.

“I don’t think I should’ve eaten so many oysters,” I said. (Not to mention the cornbread).

“Just eat the shrimp,” Julie encouraged me. I did. Every single one.

Between being treated to all that tasty food, about a gallon of Arnold Palmers, good conversation, and the relaxing vibe, I was feeling much better about life. So was Loren. She napped most of the time, stretching out on a shady part of the wooden deck.


"Sleeping on the Dock of the Bay is my favorite Otis Redding song."


Saturday afternoon, Savannah style!

“Dogs sleep about 20 hours a day,” Mark noted. (They just lost their two dogs in the last year - RIP).

So true. When I first started working from home, I was shocked at how much my dogs slept. Loren is no exception. She naps whenever possible - in the car, at the hotel, under shady trees and bushes. When dogs are on, they’re on, so I presume it must be exhausting.

Like when Loren spotted the tiny orange and grey Uncle Bubba’s house cat. Suddenly, she was up on all fours, straining against her leash, wanting to, umm, introduce herself. (Actually, she wanted the cat steamed with a side of melted butter).Thankfully, she’s also easily distracted, going over to Mark for attention and becoming fixated on something below our patio table, before splaying out again.


"Where'd the cat go?"

After saying our goodbyes (we’re heading up to Mark & Julie’s for dinner and a sleepover tomorrow night), Loren and I drove over the bridge to Fort Pulaski. Though I’m not a history buff, I couldn’t help but be humbled by the thought of the men who died there in many a gruesome fashion, right on that soil. There was a huge brick fort, with cannons on the rooftop, and that famous Southern murky water filled the moat. (Gators?)

"I ain't afraid of no reptiles!"

Loren and I sat under a tree for a few minutes, taking the scenery in.


"Pretty cool, Aunt Michelle..."

All that humidity produces some beautiful landscape - grass as far as the eye can see, moss dripping from branches, swollen treetops swaying in the wind. Not too far from the fort is shoreline, where three men fished for their night’s dinner under puffy white clouds and a cerulean blue sky.


Fishing with a view

Next, we took a brief jaunt to Tybee Island, a seaside town rife with tanned young bodies, families overloaded with beach gear, dune buggy and moped rentals, and lovely beach houses ranging from funky to palatial. So full I was, I managed to bypass a homemade ice cream shop, something that wouldn’t usually be within my willpower.

The siren all didn't lure me this time...

We had one last stop to make before going back to our hotel. My car is making funny noises, what I thought was my back brakes. When we pulled up to the auto repair shop, the mechanic took one listen and said, “That’s your U joint.”

That means a $300 repair and 2 ½ to 3 hours to fill tomorrow. Oh, well. It will give us a chance to explore the famous nearby River district, filled with historical monuments, praline shops(!), and waterfront restaurants. Hopefully, we can find as nice a patio as Uncle Bubba’s to hang our hats on for a few.

Tonight, it’s take out and turning in early.

 
"Let's make it a Blockbuster night."

I have a confession to make. I lied about Loren’s breed when checking in last night, writing down “boxer/pit bull mix.” Why? I was afraid they wouldn’t let us in a fancy place if I stated pit bull. I’m kind of ashamed of myself, really. Next time, I’ll be 100% honest and proud to write pit bull, damn the consequences.

It’s so humid. We got up and went for a walk at 7:30 a.m. and it just hits you like a steam room. Within 30 seconds, my hair starts to curl.

After taking advantage of the free breakfast here, I set up Loren for a flea bath appointment. She’s been scratching a lot - this is bug country, for all creatures apparently. Beforehand, I was determined for us to see the ocean, so we headed for the one dog-friendly stretch of this 27-mile long beach I could find online, near the Dan Russell City Pier, set smack dab in the heart of Panama Beach City.



While finding a parking spot, my friend Liz called to tell me she had walked my dogs and how well they were doing. Having to parallel park, I asked her to hold and threw the phone in the back cab. It fell into Loren’s water dish. It died. A classic Michelle move.

We hit the beach and Loren was panting within five minutes, way more interested in the nasty kelp beds than the pristine blue-green water. She ran from the waves, as gentle as they were. Thankfully, the fine white sand wasn’t hot or we wouldn’t have made it five feet. (I found one area that Florida kicks California’s ass. Their beaches are more Caribbean than toxic wasteland).


"See, you don't have to actually walk in the water..."


"I laugh in the face of danger...ha ha ha ha ha..."


"Hey there...come here often?"


"Thanks for bringing me here, Aunt Michelle."

On our way up the shore, a young black Great Dane with floppy ears ran over to meet Loren. Unlike my civic-minded self, his owner didn’t have the dog leashed. Though he seemed friendly enough, I panicked, yanking Loren away and hoping he’d get distracted. No such luck.

He made contact and I lamely pulled out my air horn, which gave a funky fizzing sound since I hadn’t used it in months. The Great Dane’s owner retrieved him in time - she must have thought I was nuts! I felt bad for not giving Loren a chance to interact with him. She didn’t seem aggressive. just startled. Next time I will give her the choice of whether she wants to meet a new dog and act accordingly, instead of freaking out and setting her up for failure. I am not yet a pack leader, even with just one dog, but am learning.

I dropped Loren off at the Barks and Bubbles salon. She ran off with Matthew the groomer with nary a glance backward. Yeah. Three hours to myself. Too bad 1.5 of them were spent tracking down a non-existent AT&T store (thanks, Gidget!) and getting my oil changed.

The remainder was spent at Sharkey’s, a tourist trap (think Pappas and Beer in Florida) with mediocre food and the most bitchen ocean views. Like real estate, this restaurant was all about location, location, location. They had a “Lobster Zone” game, like the toy retrieval version found at restaurants everywhere, only with live crustaceans they’ll cook up for $2 a try. I passed.


Good times, Florida style...except for the lobsters!

Armed with a great book (“Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris), watching over the leathery brown people basking in the sunlight as I ate my dry fish tacos, I had an epiphany. I, like Loren, am not a beach girl. I used to be a faithful sun worshipper, lavishing on the baby oil and sizzling for hours, but now I’d much rather be somewhere cool, like the mountains where I live. The heat is too much for me. I, too, am a delicate flower.


Nice view...wish I could say the same for my hair!

For that reason, I’ve decided to reroute away from some of the beach campgrounds and head into the country. We are spending an extra night in Savannah and going to Asheville, North Carolina (which I heard is a really cool place), and Wytheville, Virginia, before resuming our route to Baltimore. This will also break up some of the mileage-heavy legs of the trip.

Also, no camping - unless we can upgrade to cabins. As much as I’d like to be a handy, rough-it kind of girl, I have to admit - it’s just not my nature. I like having a roof over my head - preferably plaster, not nylon, which is prone to, say, gators. I’m not a wimp - I live in bear country and have been within 100 yards of a mountain lion, only to hike the same trail the next day. I just like my comforts. I’m getting old…I deserve it…and so does Loren. She spends enough time outside in her kennel.

Loren got a perfect report card from Matthew, the groomer, who said she was sweet throughout the whole process, including getting her nails clipped. So far, she has proven to be a wonderful dog - loves to travel and snuggle, no potty accidents, fine at the groomer, great with people, including little kids. (Anyone in Southern California ready to adopt her?)


"I feel pretty, oh so pretty..."

We ended our night with dinner at Barnacle Bruce’s - fresh Dungeness crab, steamed with a side of butter, steamed corn and potatoes, and a healthy dinner salad to round things out. If you’re gonna hang out at the ocean and not go in the water, one should at least enjoy the fruits of the sea.