One of the reasons we bought a camper in 2020 was so we could enjoy weekend getaways without having to board our three schnoodles. We call them our four-legged sons. They have definite food preferences, and true to the Schnoodlehood, they are each loyal to their one chosen toy. Fitz has a green turtle he uses to self-soothe, Ollie has a pink Hartz ball he lives to chase, and Boo Radley has a Shrek blanket that of all the things in this world he gets most territorial over. It breaks my heart to have to board them when we take a non-camping trip, so much that I feel tears welling up just thinking about it.
Don’t get me wrong – – we love their kennel, they love their kennel, and they get to stay together in the same crate. They’ll have outdoor playtime with other dogs, but just like siblings, they’ll schnocker and schnortle around at each other in their play-fighting ways while at the same time bringing each other the reassurance of family togetherness while we parents are away.
They don’t dislike the kennel, but they whine and carry on and show their anxiety about leaving home unless they know we are pulling a camper. Fitz will whine like a baby once we get on Highway 362.
All. The. Way. There.
Boo Radley will likely lose control of his bowels for one small half second somewhere in the floorboard – usually around the gas station, and it will be like dime-size hail but will smell across three states. It won’t matter if he’s already taken care of this business this morning – – this is his way of showing me – proving – that his anxiety is higher than the St. Louis Gateway Arch and he is protesting being left behind. And Ollie, the most easygoing dog ever, will root his way into my lap just to inhale my exhales as we make our way there.
Their food is individually measured, bagged, and labeled for the week ahead. Their toys are packed next to their treats, and their shot records are all updated and entered into the system at their kennel. While we’ll only be gone a week, there will be no one playing morning tug of war with Briar’s jeans legs, no one putting his warm little muzzle up to my face to greet me first thing in the morning, and no one barking at one of us to throw his ball down the hall so he can run for it again,…and again….and again. No one reminding us about treats. No one waiting for one of us to crush an empty K-cup box with our foot so he can come steal it away, whisk it off to the couch, and chew on it in the living room until we take it away.
They’ve seen the suitcases. They’re suspecting something’s up, but not yet knowing exactly what.
Is it too late to back out? My heart can’t take leaving my babies!
I suppose that’s what sunglasses are really for……
Common Threads 