Written by Gus

I hadn’t a clue of where we landed.

Having spent close to a week in what I call “automotive anguish” – a self-diagnosed condition – and abruptly awaking from a deep puppy sleep, I wasn’t the most stable source of time and space, despite my famous nostrils.

Dad walked the dim property while I watched from Betty’s front seat. He seemed to be surveying our location in alignment with the missing sun.  Dad can’t hide his plotting face; his eyes squint in a manner only I can spot. Nothing is classified between master and pup.

As my senses adjusted, the scene began to focus.  Grass and dirt teamed for a field of a certain sport. To the right, a white farmhouse stood respectfully out of play.  The horizon had a rich orange tint as if brushed by Monet.  A ring of corn framed the painting.

Dad’s investigation lasted a torturous ten minutes. I’d yet to figure his intentions, but there was nothing vague about his stride. He knew the ground he walked and yearned to drink its pulp.  When he returned to Betty, dad briefed me on the situation.

Our whereabouts were that of Dyersville, Iowa. Snout analytics quickly confirmed the latitude.  This particular pasture?  Some place called Field of Dreams.

Dad referred to it as “extra sacred soil” – and not because Kevin Costner once ran its bases (never heard of the guy) – because it existed as a space for all to Remember.  Our only caveat?  The site had closed three hours past.

Hence the empty parking lot.  Hence the holy hush.  Hence dad’s deliberation – an unusual delay for such a rule-averse soul.  And then, with a gentle tone – one that had no intention of disturbing the moment – he spoke…

“Well, our timing is certainly no accident.”

love
His inference read like a teleprompter – one without need for a single word more. Resting on an altar was a moment tailor-made to our road vision. Capturing it was all that remained. I hoisted my ears to peak elevation (a.k.a. my “YES lift”).

The next thing I felt was the moist dew of the right field turf.  In a sprint fueled from Within, dad and I had travelled the length of the outfield… back… and back again faster than Harry Potter could apparate.  The stretch of our legs was no match to the stretch of our Souls.

love
As we panted in unison, Betty but a blip in the dusky distance, dad did the one thing, the only thing, that could have heightened the moment… he reached for his pocket.

Being a seasoned veteran, I can spot “the reach” before the hand ever decides to move.  It’s not a craft you master overnight.

Years of study and concentration sharpen one’s ability to discern a pen reach from a key reach – a key reach from a phone reach – and a phone reach from a ball reach.  By the grace of the road gods, this was, in fact, the holy grail of reaches.  I grounded my stance and assumed the position.

There was no audience to witness the performance of my career – and honestly, we didn’t want it any other way.  All that emanated was the click of ball to jaw and paws to earth. In between, there was nothing – a nothingness that somehow held it ALL.  Dad was right.  This wasn’t any old patch of grass, it oozed an ethereal scent.

Ray wanted a catch.  I wanted a fetch.

love
The final toss – a two-hopper that I athletically turned into one – came sooner than I’d have liked. It wasn’t until my return jog, though, as dad’s silhouette disappeared into deep centerfield, that the entirety of the moment changed gears.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any darker, they did.  When I met him in the corn, twilight was completely gone. The stalks towered not only my short stature, but dwarfed dad’s too.  It was like some sort of vegetable portal – a doorway mighty enough to drop my ball to the ground and halt dad in his tracks.  A shy summer breeze embellished the script.

“Can you feel it, pup?” dad whispered. His eyes closed and arms V-ed wide. We were miles from the nearest church, but something baptismal appeared to be happening.  Together, we breathed.

“Heaven on earth,” he continued.  “Take it all in.”

It wasn’t until the following afternoon (and several home run trots later) that the importance of our Iowa evening integrated fully. Eight days and 2,000 miles in the making, all roads had led us to that specific piece of farmland at that specific tick in time — a cosmic payoff at the conclusion of a lengthy journey.

So, you wanna know the secret to capturing the moment?

Choose often.
Wiggle the rules.
Take the Game into your own hands.

After all, what other game is there?

love
Gus

  this is t.j.’s blog

we’re talking fetch in 50 here.

you are reading all of this

are you glad that you stopped by

thanks for coming

i do appreciate it

what’s up with you?

anything good?namaste. 

Written by Gus

Before I riff on our latest road adventure, I’d like to distribute the following context:

2,731 miles.
8 days.

Phew! That felt good. No dig to dad, but it feels wrong (and a little less climatic) to exclude such muscular detail.

And no, I did not count our highway meanderings, never (dad’s warned me of getting lost in numbers), Betty’s dashboard informed me.  A woman of her purity is incapable of deceit, I tell ya.  After all, her last name is White.

Now, without further ado (but with a quantitative understanding in tow), I bring to you our latest American escapades.

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It’s a rare occurrence, a phenomenon really, that we know where we’ll sleep for the night – geographically speaking that is.  Unless dad is slicker than I imagined (and he isn’t, trust me), schedules and destinations aren’t exactly our MO.

Dad prefers, as he calls it, the “fluid” route. “Free of time, full of freedom,” he’s always telling me. His in-car wit is never short on flair. It’s all very Kerouac of him, which is quite the laugher, because, well, dad hates On the Road.  Nevertheless, who am I to stomp a man’s Expression?

This particular bout of Fetch in 50, however, I’d been drooling over for quite some time.  Chicago, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa – the meat being the middle, of course.  “Heading to the North Country, pup.”  The sound of it vibrated my bones.

For fetch purposes, my interest lied strictly in the water.  I’d seen dad’s magazine cut-outs.  Rivers, beaches, Great Lakes, regular lakes – the vision alone set my sea legs in motion.

But as things would have it, and this is a real shocker for such a plan-allergic duo, our northbound ride was a far cry from a case study in freedom. (This is the part where you, the reader, refresh oneself on the numeric context I so appropriately laid out).

Frankly, it felt more like the “Little Water, Lots of Corn” tour with the North Country spiel being nothing but catchy propaganda for dad to drop the windows and blare Dylan for a week.

I know, poor old Gus, such an oppressed canine.  At this rate I might be the poster dog for the next Sarah McLachlan commercial, right? (Singing) I will remember youu. Will you remember meee?

But I digress because… 1). I once heard a human say that.  2). Thanks to Oprah I have an attitude of gratitude (you miss her too, admit it), and  3). This trip wasn’t wrong, just a wee bit different.  It beat to its own drum.  Even dad would agree.  Allow me to elaborate.

Having built quite the road résumé over the course of my day, I’ve learned a number of things about not only myself as a Dog Being, but the ingredients for which a memorable adventure entails.  Want to know the secret?

Here, lean in.
No, like really lean in.
Take a hit of this dog breath.  It’s not going to melt you.
There you go.  Right there.
Fresh and potent with a fishy finish.
Not so bad, huh?

The secret is there is no secret.  (How you like that build-up?)  There is a tried-and-true method to a forgettable experience though.

_________________________________________________

It’s called never leaving the driveway.  To start the car, you gotta turn the key, sure.  But to move the car, you gotta hit the gas.  So GO people! — wherever It may be.  Those who settle are those who skip the pedal.

_________________________________________________

Which brings me back to the road. This is how our North Country script read; directed by the Youniverse, starring Betty, dad and yours truly.

Chicago was Chicago.  Tall.  Crowded.  Shitty parking.  The city life basics. Dad drank espresso.  Me from a filthy sidewalk bowl.  I did manage a leash-free game on the greenery at Northwestern.  Great pitch come to think of it. For the most part though, we were there by day, gone by morning.

Day two, rain in Wisconsin.  Dad drove.  I waited.  Rain continued.  Dad drove further. I waited longer. Three days here in total.  The sun shone the latter of the two.  Didn’t help.  The sites and shore failed to impress.

Rarely do states flop in their entirety (and by rarely I mean never), but there’s a first for everything, right? Sorry cheeseheads, but let’s be honest, you’re nothing but a Michigan imposter.

Just a guy sleeping on a dashboard wondering when it will stop.
hello there

It wasn’t until day six after another rainout and a thousand new miles on Betty’s belt that we found a favorable swimming hole.

Grand Marais, Minnesota, right on scenic Lake Superior — a mere 40 miles from the Canadian border.  My dip was divine but it failed to last an hour. Dad said we had to maneuver our way back to humanity for the evening.  We found it.  And I slept like a puppy that night.

It didn’t take long before logging truck driver distances again. Dad’s back hurt, my heart did.  Minus the Minnesota respite, the trip had been anything but ideal.  Some places fall flat on their face (ahem… Key West.  We get it, you like Jimmy Buffet.  Give it a rest, will ya?), that’s the nature of the business — and life in general for that matter.  I understood it, but was stubborn to accept it.

All of a sudden home smelled closer than ever.  My nosedometer is tuned to the hundredth of a mile. Dad drove from a slouched position; the sun eager to clock out.  I knew Operation North Country was running on fumes, but was there really no allure?  Who was I kidding?  I waved the white flag and closed my eyes.

The next thing I heard was the stillness of the summer night. It seemed to breathe through me.  Betty napped, crickets chirped.  It took me a moment to realize this wasn’t a dream.  I was in fact awake.

With that, dad opened the door, and with a twinkle in his eyes, he whispered…

“This is it, pup.  Are you ready?”

hello there
For Part 2:  The Conclusion, tune in next Tuesday.