|I enjoy the pleasures of car travel, especially when I slide this so-called|
pet barrier over and hop in the driver's seat. That's the goal, anyway.
Yet, because I have Mom wrapped right around my substantial paws, she often needs some assistance. Said help most often is sought when she thinks it's time for me to get back in the car, or C-A-R as she and Dad like to call it. As if I didn't learn how to spell it long ago.
After a very shaky start when I was a pup just out of the shelter, I now adore getting into the car—when I'm at home. I'm onto another trick that my family employs—getting out the C-A-R in emergencies, like the time I escaped and ______ [fill in the blank with whatever adventurous episode comes to mind—I've had many]. "Want to go in the CAR?" they say with emphasis, and because I do, I hop in, even though I know they're just taking me back home. I can always refuse to get out once I get there (see below).
But back to Blanche. When I recently refused to get back into the car after some needless grooming at Natick Animal Clinic, Mom was desperate enough to ask a cat owner for help. A double cat owner. The kind woman tried, but failing, promised to drop off her cats and return. She did. I complied. Then I foiled the pet barrier that keeps me in the way back and plopped in the front seat. Ever cautious Mom then had to go through the whole thing all over again. Stop, get me out, ask a stranger for help, get me in...ad nauseam for her, fun for me.
I've forced Mom to play out the same scenario at the Rte. 128 Amtrak station, at Wellesley Town Hall, the Wellesley Books parking lot, etc., etc., etc.
Just because I can. Because I really do like the C-A-R.
My latest trick: refusing to get out. That involves a whole other strategy, better discussed in another post.