Now Ginger (the wonder dog) had a rough start when I picked her up. Even though she had peed on cue at the breeder’s request when I arrived, I decided to put her on the grass one more time before cooping her up in a crate for the 1.5-hour drive to my home. Bad move. She took off like a sprinter when the gun fires. Down the edge of the driveway, around the wall, and into the backyard, she was determined to leave her would-be kidnapper in the dust. Weaving in and out of toys and lawn furniture, she made for the doggy door set up for the comings and goings of the pups and their mothers. Whining and yelping all the while, Ginger made such a commotion, that the dogs inside began charging out to see who the intruder was. I’m sure they would have saved her from me and my nefarious intentions had the gate at the bottom of the ramp not been closed.
With her rescuers’ efforts thwarted, I was finally successful in scooping her up. She whimpered all the way to the car. She whined in the crate. I backed down the driveway; she yelped. I pulled onto the street; she cried. Nothing would calm her down until I put my fingers thru the door to let her sniff them. The problem was the crate rested on the back seat. With one hand on the wheel, and my other arm twisted behind me such that I thought I might dislocate my shoulder, I wound my way thru the rural roads of New Hampshire. This technique worked pretty well until I began to merge onto I-95.
I know that you local readers know what I mean when I say I-95 through southern New Hampshire and Massachusetts is a daunting motorway. It’s not that the road doesn’t provide enough lanes. (Most of the time anyway, except the part in Canton, where it narrows to one lane that makes a hair-raising 270-degree looping turn. The first time I drove that part of the highway, I thought I was going to die.) It’s not even the ridiculous number of badly designed entrances and exits, especially along Route 128. It’s that I-95 is so busy ALL of the time, and all of the other cars seemed to be peopled by individuals with passive-aggressive disorders.
Drivers on I-95 yield to no one; rarely use their blinkers when changing lanes, which is constantly; tap their breaks randomly; tailgate the car in front of them; and don’t consider themselves speeding until their speedometers exceed 85 miles per hour. Driving on this portion of one of the premier roads of the Eisenhower Interstate Highway System is like riding bumper cars at the state fairgrounds. Your heart is in your throat most of time, and you can’t stop thinking about how you wish you’d stood in line for the giant Ferris wheel instead.
So there I was looking over my left shoulder trying to merge between two trucks, with the fingers of my right hand wriggling thru the crate door in the back seat. This was not going to work. As soon as I withdrew my hand, the ear-piercing wailing began. For someone who had so recently seen me as a lawless scoundrel abducting her from a loving home, Ginger’s behavior seemed a tad surprising. Was I the Lone Ranger dressed in a powder blue rodeo outfit or the villain dressed in black? Hi-ho Santa Fe away! We successfully merged onto I-95.
Fifteen minutes later, Ginger was cried out. Exhausted, she fell asleep, resigned to leave herself in the hands of fate as well as those of the clearly mad, middle-aged woman in the front seat. The rest of the ride was uneventful. As she slept, I navigated our way home.
I wonder whether The Lone Ranger movie has any dogs in it? I must let Ginger watch it on On Demand.