The heat at the Casa has been pretty brutal since we returned from Colorado, but it’s summertime in Arkansas; what do expect?
One benefit to having two potentially infected pups on the premises is that the parental units are keeping us totally seperated, which means that Mia and I have been staying in the kitchen during the day. The A/C is great, but I would much rather be outside where I can keep an eye on things. Mom is treating the pups twice daily, but the sores on Lucy seem to be growing, not in number but in size, so dad may have to humble down and visit Dr Andrea next week; stay tuned.
After a brief rainshower cooled things off a bit, dad was thought he would sneak off for a bit of a ride; like THAT’S going to happen! I caught him checking the tire pressure on the Suzuki so, without waiting for a written invitation, promptly issued my own RSVP and assumed my place on the bike.
Of all the things I love, eating, sleeping, pestering Max, posting on the interweb, writing poetry, taking cross country trips with dad, the one thing that trumps them all is riding on the motorcycle. I just can’t get enough. Donna sent me an awesome pair of goggles, but I’m a stubborn girl; I wear them until the bike starts moving, then, as soon as I know that dad can’t do anything about if, off they go. Dad is ill-equipped for the battle of wills between us, almost like the poor guy is bringing a pocket knife to a gun fight.
Epic trips are nice, but sometimes it’s the short jaunts that are the treatment the doctor ordered. The sun was setting low in the west, painting the bottoms of the remaining clouds a brilliant red as we pulled out of the driveway, the wind whistling through my ears as the thump of the big 650 propelled us down the road.
The bike has a tendency to shift a bit as I can’t control my excitement, first to the left, then the right, wait, I think I missed something on the left, nope, it was on the right, I’m sure of it, and on and on. Dad used to try to get me to sit still, as 50# of sinewy muscle doing the Macarena on the motorcycle is a bit distracting. He has since resigned himself to the idea that, when I get in one of these moods, I’m pretty much going to do what I want anyway, so he had just better get used to it and pretend it was his idea in the first place.
When other drivers see us, there are usually two primary reactions: the first is what I would have expected, one of joy at the sight of a goofy dog riding pillion on the back of a yellow motorcycle. The second is somewhat less cordial, a look of self-righteous indignation, “would you look at that, Maud! how DARE they do something out of the ordinary! Don’t they know that could be DANGEROUS?” The only proper response to these types of nabobs is a well timed braaaap of the throttle and a parting “CHARK!!!” as we vanish in a puff of blue smoke.
Is there a point to this story, you ask? Not even a hint of one…
…unless it’s the hint from me to you to get out there and try something a little different; the reward always vastly outweighs the risk.
It’s always a party at the Casa del Whackos!