Having a Golden Retriever that doesn’t like to ride in the car is akin to having a Lab that doesn’t like to swim. But because Max would be oh-so bored at home on most days, he must ride. And once at the plant, he’s a very happy dog, what with lots of human attention and a higher probability for a random squirrel sighting. It’s getting here that’s the problem.
Ever since a detour onto the shoulder at 70+ with the attendant shouts and wild gesticulations at the trucker who left us no other route, Max views any powered vehicle with a jaundiced eye.
He will ride, but always calls shotgun. Not only is the front passenger seat his only option, but that seat MUST BE EMPTY. He refuses to take his place if anything larger than a molecule is already there, but will stop short and stare at the offending object until it is removed. Typical of unacceptable obstructions would be a gas pump receipt, or a dime. This from a dog who crashes through the thickest brambles in the woods after wild animals, real or imagined.
So this morning I placed my favorite fleece jacket on the floor of the front seat (items on the floorboard in front of Max are marginally acceptable), provided cold, fresh air to keep his mind off of vehicle crash statistics, and things were looking pretty good. Right up until he threw up. Onto the fleece. (Photo to go here censored by Jay the Webmaster as being in poor taste.)