EmBARKing on a PAW-some road trip with Chlo

It was time for the annual Mosiman family fishing trip to Black Lake (I'd initially capitalized the "f" in "family" but it lent an unintentionally macabre tone to the event...on our own, we Mosimans are a disaster-waiting-to-happen...we don't need to conjure even the subtlest references to the Mansons to make it worse). For Brad, one of the high points of the trip is fishing with our little dog, Chlo. For 50 weeks of the year, my dachshund is my soul mate...my spirit animal...attentive and conciliatory to my every emotional need. 

Except during fishing and hunting season (Or whenever Daddy barbecues ribs).

It is during these periods of time that Chlo harkens back to her ancestral roots. She sheds the domesticated frivolities of her existence with ease and without regret. She will fearlessly go toe to toe (fin) and tooth to tooth against an armored Northern Pike and sail into the carcass of a downed deer like an Olympic diver. Chlo goes ferociously feral and Brad loves it. 

But Chlo has grown older. Liver disease has left her bloated and unbalanced. Her eyes are a bit cloudy and her canines corroded. And my sweet girl is so tired.

But, as Brad began the familiar process of packing, Chlo eyed the pile of life jackets and rain coats with keen interest. She carefully inventoried the rods, reels, and tackle boxes as they emerged and Brad's heart began to break. "The whole week would be too much for her..." he said sadly as she incessantly accompanied each of his trips to the truck as he packed. 

Uh-oh.

No...no...no. I had successfully extricated myself from these trips YEARS ago...six or more people crammed into a musty two bedroom/one tiny bathroom (with an unreliable toilet) cabin with seasoned fishermen intent on going out on the lake and STAYING out on the lake in ANY kind of weather...this was NOT the ideal environment for Amy Mosiman.

"If she could just come up for a day or two..." Brad brainstomed quietly, careful not to make eye contact with me lest he immediately be turned into stone. 

So that is how I ended up on a four-hour long road trip with my dachshund.

Yes. I drove FOUR hours so my dog could fish.

I chronicled the highlights in real time for her eagerly awaiting fishing fans:

Whereupon Chlo departs for her adventure, enshrined in luxury...to be left alone for seven minutes while her mama fuels up her chariot to fight her way through , not one, but two protective layers of foil to get to the strawberry rhubarb pie tucked securely under the passenger side seat...ignoring me as I wrestled her away and pie-shamed her. Then, onto Grandma's where our heroine begged for bologna in a way NOT befitting royalty. Then she further embarrassed me by pooping dramatically in the lawn before her elderly audience of admirers who applauded her efforts. 

It should go without saying that it was both an honor and a privilege to act as Chlo's chauffeur and the big picture metaphor of my little dog and I taking this journey together was not lost on me.

"Where are you on 81?" my husband asked as Chlo and I stopped to stretch our legs at a little park pavilion. "Eighty-one what?" I inquired, shaking my sharing size bag of plain M&Ms. I did the math to see if the sharing size contains eighty-one pieces of M&Ms. Happily, it did. Sadly, the bag was now empty. "Are you not on Interstate 81?" Brad sighed. "I'm sure I will be soon," I reassured him, luring Chlo back to the car with a french fry.

And thus concludes the story of my and Chlo's five hour journey to Black Lake so she could fish. But, as you already know, the destination may have been reached but the adventure was far from over. A Turkish proverb states that "No road is long with good company." And as companions go, Chlo is pretty paw-some.