Winter 2013. It was time for the weekly commute to work, a several hour drive in the usual heavy truck traffic. I left early, to get here before dark, but with what was left of an accident closing all but one lane, it took over four hours.
I'd driven this route for a couple years already while dating my now husband, no accidents and no tickets. The secret is -
(1) drive a vehicle with an engine that sucks fuel like a CF700 turbofan engine
(2) don't break any traffic laws
(3) don't break them as bad as anyone driving around you.
#3 is easy. Find the worst possible driver in the world (which is not hard to do on I-65) and when you spot him or her, stay back at their 8 or 4 o'clock position, whichever keeps them between the Highway Patrol on the median and you.
Or simply draft behind the trucks sharing the road responsibly until that smile and glazed look (brains!) in the eyes of the Dart Guy on the back of the truck creeps you out and you have to pass.
Barkley would with me, with a harness that assured in a sudden stop he couldn't turn into one of the Wallenda's.
It did, however, allow him JUST enough room to sit with his rear end on the seat and his front feet on the floor.
You think I'm kidding, that was how he sat at home when he wasn't napping.
When we finally got to the crash pad, he would be all excited, RUNNING to the back door in the garage. Then he realized, this was the small place, with no "Dad", with less toys per square foot, no squirrels to bark at and his pretty friend who took him to the dog park when I worked wouldn't be here until the morning.
And the sulk began.
No one can sulk like a lab.
At least he didn't have to go on call at midnight like some people.
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