From Hurst to Home

JoLee and I hit the road again, this time headed for Hurst, Texas. My sister, Pam anxiously awaited our arrival with her two furchildren, Sergei and Dani. She had even gone so far as to buy a soft muzzle for Sergei, who hates puppies and will lunge at them, attempt to bite them and roll them at the dog park.

The trip itself was uneventful, and Pam met us at a landmark Chinese restaurant so I wouldn’t have troubles making my way to her apartment in the dark.

Sergei hated JoLee. JoLee was entirely unaffected by his hatred, which must have frustrated him to no end, as he lunged and attempted to bite JoLee over and over again. The soft muzzle was a hit with Pam and me, anyway!

JoLee slept with me on Pam’s couch that night - our first night together. He did very well, and had no “accidents” in the apartment. The next morning, after an Egg McMuffin, we were on our way home, to Nebraska.

From Hurst to Home

Once again, the traveling was smooth. Good thing - I found it hard to concentrate, what with having the rear-view mirror trained on JoLee so I could watch him play and sleep. About three-quarters of the way home, he discovered the “squeaky ball.” Pam was laughing as I tried to talk to her over the noise. She reminded me of the scene in “Practical Magic” where Sandra Bullock had a hangover and one of her daughters was playing a kazoo incessantly. She said, “Can I see that a minute?” And when her daughter handed it over, she threw it out the window. We both had a good laugh over that - Pam said she could just imagine me doing that very thing.

We rolled into the driveway at about 10:00 that night. Harry was asleep in his chair in front of the TV, but Star and Tim greeted me at the door. I had just enough time to get JoLee’s harness on him before Harry came down the stairs to meet him. Then, while Harry held JoLee’s leash, I went into the house and loved on my other pups, and then we all went for our first walk.

Things around our house will never be the same - and that is a good thing. JoLee is growing fast. His coat is as soft as down, and his tummy is now covered with freckles. Each and every day we wonder what he’s going to grow into; how big he’ll be, if more spots will appear in his coat - but each and every day, I’m glad I made the long drive to Baton Rouge to adopt him.

From Baton Rouge to Shreveport

As I pulled out of the parking lot of the East Baton Rouge Animal Control Center, I wondered if I should have taken JoLee for a little walk before starting out. I looked into the rear view mirror to see him sleepily gnawing on the rawhide I brought him, and figured he was doing fine.



I followed my Google directions, which took me to a busy intersection where I was to turn left, and then make a right onto the highway that would take me to Shreveport, where my friend Jolie lives.

JoLee did really well in the car. He did have a couple of pee accidents, but I knew that would happen, and I kept an eye on him in my rear-view mirror. As I’d hoped, he slept most of the time, some of it on his back, with his little round speckled puppy tummy in the air. It was all I could do to keep driving and not stop to play with him, and pet him, to reassure myself that he was mine.



Finding Jolie’s place was easy, mostly due to her detailed directions. As I turned into the drive, I marveled at the beauty around me. Huge trees loomed overhead, making a sort of leafy cathedral. A large log cabin appeared on the left, and a fenced-in area with familiar looking kennels, each with a wagging tail, appeared on the right. This was definitely the right place. As I crunched to a stop, Jolie appeared, coming from the house. “Great directions!” I told her, as I gave her a hug. Then she got to meet JoLee. I didn't even bring my camera in, but Jolie took lots of pictures.

I’m not sure how long we stayed - all I know is that it wasn’t long enough. I did get to meet Jim, Chesley and all of the dogs, though, and I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures Jolie took - all of them great. I have one on my desk - the one of him looking up at her, with me grinning like a goofball in the background. Every time I look at it I smile, thinking of that day, and of Jolie. I’m so thankful for the Internet. Without it (and Dogster and Facebook), my life would most certainly be less!

Adoption Day

I woke early at the Microtel in Baton Rouge, Louisiana on Friday morning (September 10, my Dad’s birthday), after the 18 hour drive from Lincoln, not much the worse for wear, and ready to meet my new pup. When I called Suzie to find out what kind of arrangements had been made, she sounded miserable, like she had about five pounds of snot in her head. We chatted for a minute or two. She told me she hadn’t been to work for two days and that she had an appointment with her doctor to give her some sort of shot; and she told me she would call the vet, Dr. Fairchild, to make sure that JoLee would be the first dog on the surgery roster. But I wouldn’t get to meet Suzie. I was so disappointed I nearly cried. In my mind, Suzie and I would have had breakfast together, and then I would have followed her to the East Baton Rouge Animal Control Center. She would have given me a tour of the place; I would have been able to help out in some capacity while waiting for JoLee to be ready to go.

After we hung up, I wandered aimlessly around the motel room, waiting for the time the shelter opened, making sure I didn’t leave anything behind (my worst fear is that I’ll leave my Sandisk camera card reader somewhere - old as it is, it may be irreplaceable). I could certainly have gone to get breakfast somewhere - heck, they had a small buffet of breakfast items set up downstairs in the lobby of the motel - but I just wasn’t hungry. My one true link to JoLee wasn’t going to be there. What if they didn’t know which dog it was? What if the surgeon resented Suzie trying to order his or her day, and put JoLee at the end of the list instead? What if there were complications during surgery? What was I going to do when I got to the shelter?

I only made two wrong turns on the way to the EBR Animal Control Center. I’m beginning to learn some things about myself: when something unexpected happens (like learning Suzie was out of commission), I tend to lose focus and make wrong turns that I know are wrong turns. The first wrong turn was one of those; but the second wrong turn was due to poor signage, and took me into a prison. Yes, that’s right, the East Baton Rouge Animal Control Center is located right next door to a prison. Just as I drove by the sign that said, “Do Not Enter - Must Present Identification” I thought, “Holy shit!” and quickly did a u-turn and beat the heck out of there. I pulled into the well-shaded parking lot of the Animal Control Center at about 10:15. It was a beautiful day in Baton Rouge - brilliant blue sky, huge puffy clouds and bright sunshine. It was also pretty warm and humid.

When I walked into the building, the young woman at the desk to the left of the door asked if she could help me, and when I identified myself, she grinned and said, “So you’re the one who’s come all that way for a dog!” I nodded, somewhat sheepishly. The lobby was in the center of the building, and was set up with four straight-backed chairs, two on either side, behind which were glassed-in play areas for adoptable animals. I sat in front of the one that had about ten kittens playing with each other on a cleverly set up kitty condo. Across from me, behind a sign that read “Adopted!” was a young yellow lab, napping on a blanket. I settled in for a long wait, not knowing what to expect. It was kind of fun, listening in on the conversations around me. I loved the soft southern accents. A uniformed woman strode through from a door behind me and to the right, through the lobby without talking to anyone. Another uniformed officer tried to explain the vagaries of football to the woman who had spoken to me, and another woman came from somewhere to the left, bearing something that smelled suspiciously like breakfast sausage. I half expected my stomach to rumble, but I was still too keyed up to be hungry. The same uniformed woman strode back past me, her eyes red and her face streaked with tears. No one else seemed to notice.

No more than 15 minutes after I’d first sat down, a veterinary technician came out to make some photocopies. The receptionist pointed me out to her, and she stopped to talk to me on her way back. “Your little guy is in surgery right now,” she smiled at me. “Would you like to hold him as he comes out from under anesthesia?”

I could have hugged her. “You bet I would!” Ten minutes later, she brought out a limp, lanky, fur-covered bundle on a flannel pillowcase. From the minute I first saw him, his tail was wagging, even still under anesthesia. Of course, he wasn’t so far under that his breathing tube was still in or anything - he was beginning to raise his head and come out of it. But still, that tail kept on wagging. My eyes filled - his tail looked just like Winnie’s, in miniature. Long and butterscotch, with a little white tip.

The time was 11:00 a.m. As the vet tech gently laid him in my arms, she explained to me that he should stay there for at least another 15 minutes, so he could wake up more, but after that, he should be good to go. She said that when they tested him, they found that he had giardia and coccidia, so they had started him on medications for those. She would give him today’s pills when he was fully awake, and she would send pills home with him. As I sat there with little JoLee in my lap, Persana, the woman at the front desk, took a picture for me. I marveled at the softness of his fur, at how tiny he was. One of the staff people came out, telling the others she had just gotten off the phone with someone who had adopted a dog from a different shelter, only to find out that it had worms, and that she wanted to bring it in and have it euthanized. The conversation that ensued was interesting (and, I’m sure, partially for my benefit). Apparently, the East Baton Rouge Animal Control Center tests for all parasites and has a strict rule on spaying and neutering all animals before they go home, but not all shelters in that area do. I heard horror stories about dogs who were sent to their new homes infested with heartworms. All the while I was watching little JoLee come back to life, thankful that he had come to this particular place.

I finally carried JoLee out to my car at around 11:30. Persana helped me out by carrying the bag of Science Diet Puppy Chow and JoLee’s prescriptions and paperwork. She laughed when I opened the back of the Dogmobile, seeing the little pile of toys laid out on the waterproof mattress pad, the towels, and the water bottles. “He’s going to be one happy dog,” she exclaimed. “You have a safe trip home, now!”

The Long Road to Baton Rouge

I posted on Facebook last night that my advice to anyone who wants to drive 18 hours solo is that they should reconsider doing so. After a good night’s sleep and a chance to stretch out all the kinks that worked their way into my body throughout the drive yesterday, I have to admit I don’t feel nearly as bad as I thought I would!

I have added a couple of things to my “things to keep in mind” list, though. First, an atlas. Always carry a detailed atlas - it can save your bacon. And, I will always adjust my timetable to add at least one hour to any timetable Google gives me on their directions. Their times are strictly road times, and don’t take into consideration stops for gasoline and “bio-breaks” - or, for that matter, getting lost.

I left my driveway at 4:00 a.m. yesterday. It was kind of surreal, leaving at that time in the morning. So peaceful - and there was nearly nobody out on the streets. I felt a special kind of kinship with those folks I saw, as if I was part of a secret “Up Earlier Than Anyone Else Club.”

As I eased into the driving groove, I found myself coming up being a semi truck on I-29, and I had to smile when I saw the picture on the back. It was a great way to start the trip.



Missouri’s miles flowed smoothly by. The day dawned cloudy, with periods of light misty showers. I was thankful I didn’t have to deal with the bright sunshine, although, as I entered Arkansas, the clouds started looking threatening.

Arkansas really surprised me. I’ve never heard anything good about Arkansas (come to think of it, I don’t really think I’ve heard ANYTHING about Arkansas), and if I were asked to draw a picture of someone from Arkansas, I would probably draw a toothless hillbilly leaning on a broken-down porch, rifle casually slung over one shoulder. Although I did see one billboard that seemed to be tailored for that kind of person (“Loose dentures? Missing teeth? We can help!”), the rest of Arkansas proved to be absolutely beautiful. The stony bluffs of Missouri turned into rocky outcroppings, and the terrain changed from hilly to downright mountainous. I’ll be the first to admit, having grown up in Colorado, that to me the Rocky Mountains were the only “real” mountains in the U.S. Arkansas taught me otherwise. Rather than soaring high about me, Arkansas’ mountain valleys drop away from the highway.



Wraiths of mist clung vertically to the hillsides, looking substantial enough to reach out and grasp. About eight hours into my drive, I saw signs directing folks to a big state park that I’m going to do some research into - when I get my Airstream, this could be a nice place to spend some time.

Not much further along, I ran into the remnants of Hurricane Hermine. The rain poured down faster than the windshield wipers could carry it away, and the highway turned into a red river. Traffic crawled along, and I was relieved to pull off into a rest stop and wait until the worst of the storm had passed. The next hour or so was spent dodging in and out of torrential downpours. The last band of rain ended abruptly, and I drove out of a wall of water onto dry pavement. Honestly, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw cars appearing out of the cloud.

Arkansas wore on and on. The terrain became flatter, Google’s directions more vague. Finally, as seems to be the case on any trip I attempt, I was lost. The two-lane highway Google directed me onto turned into an old two-lane highway, which then turned into an old two-lane highway in desperate need of repair, and then it dead-ended at a dirt road. Not exactly where I wanted to be at 4:00 in the afternoon, lost in the back woods of Arkansas.

I have no idea how long it took me to find my way out of that particular paper bag, but I will admit, after I found my way to the highway I needed to be on (with the help of my trusty atlas), I felt like Zena, Warrior Princess. Or, okay, maybe more like Boris in the James Bond film “Goldeneye” (“I am Inwinceable!”)




I was also surprised by all the logging trucks I saw. Tree farming is a big business in Arkansas.



Late in the afternoon, I finally arrived in Louisiana. The countryside is remarkably like Nebraska’s; fields of green, very agricultural. The sunset was spectacular, and I was so happy to be back on track.



The Fates weren’t done with me yet, though. If you know any of my history, you know I was in a terrible car crash when I was visiting a friend in Australia. This was years ago, but I retain a dislike of driving on two-lane highways, especially in the dark. Wouldn’t you know it, when darkness fell, road signs appeared advising of construction and turning what had been a four-lane highway with a nice wide median into two-lane traffic. My worst nightmare.

I arrived at the motel 18 hours, to the minute, from when I left my cozy familiar little house in Lincoln, Nebraska.

I’ve had a good night’s sleep, I’m feeling alert and well-rested, and after a shower, I’m going to be ready to take on the world - and go meet my little Joe Lee!

A New and Different Journey - The Story of Joe Lee

It was an accident. Truly, it was. I didn’t intend to adopt another pup. Not yet, anyway.

On Monday, August 30th, I was idly killing some time doing what I had begun to refer to as “Cruisin’ for Catahoulas” when I came across “#7824 male,” a cute little speckly-nosed pup with clear blue eyes that seemed to look into my soul. I sighed and shook my head. Too bad he was incarcerated in the East Baton Rouge Parish Animal Control Center, 956 miles away from home.

Since Winnie died in June, people had asked if I was going to adopt another dog to replace her. I told them all no, that I was fine with just two dogs, and with Tim’s health in such a precarious position, I didn’t think it was right to introduce chaos into his life. Two dogs were cheaper than three. It was so much easier to walk two, there was so much less mess with two. So I wasn’t seriously looking for a dog. To make a search even less likely to succeed, I had decreed that if I was to adopt another dog, it would have to have at least one blue eye. I’d wanted a blue-eyed dog since I was a girl, and after meeting Koda, Kristy’s pup, that desire was renewed.

That night, I couldn’t get the little freckled face of #7824 out of my mind, so I emailed my good friend Jolie, who lives in Louisiana, on the off-chance she might be in a position to pull a pup from that particular shelter if I could make some sort of arrangement to come get him. When my sister learned I was interested in #7824, she had offered to drive over to Baton Rouge and get him, and then I could pick him up at her house. Jolie replied, saying she lived about 5½ hours away from Baton Rouge, but she would contact a sorority sister of hers who liked animals and see what she could work out.


On the morning of Tuesday, August 31, I still hadn’t heard from Jolie. The hours passed slowly. I am definitely not a patient person, and at around 9:00 (I told you, I’m not patient), and after encouragement from several of my friends (especially you, Kathy), I called the shelter just to find out if they adopted out of state.

The woman who answered the phone at the East Baton Rouge Parish Animal Control Center, Suzie, was one of the warmest and most charming women I have ever talked to. She confirmed that, yes, they do adopt to folks who live out of state. She asked which dog I was interested in, and while I held on the phone, she looked up the records for #7824 male. I held my breath when, at first, she couldn’t find him. Apparently, he was still in the “Strays” section. Then she found the records. Was he a Lab mix? No, the Petfinder site said he was a Catahoula mix. She asked me to hold again (“Darlin,’ can I get you to hang on just one more time? I promise I won’t be long...”). She went back to physically make sure he was the right dog and that he was still in the right cage. When she came back to the phone, Suzie said, “Oh, that’s the right one. He’s Lab and Catahoula. He sure is a cute little guy, isn’t he, with all those spots on his sweet lil’ nose?”

And then, when I asked how one would go about arranging a long-distance adoption, she said, with a smile in her voice and the sweetest of Southern accents, “We do take credit cards!”

By the time I got off the phone with Suzie, she had taken all my information, and we scheduled the pup's neuter surgery for September 10th. In return, Suzie gave me her cell phone number. "Now, if anything happens, you know, if the plane makes a wrong turn or you're runnin' late, y'all just give me a call, and I'll take the little fella home with me. You can pick him up at my house, bless your heart!"

And that’s how it happened. When I called, I was just testing the water, as it were. My questions were theoretical. I ended up doing a cannonball into the deep end, and I am now the owner (in absentia and virtually sight unseen) of one of the cutest pups ever born!

So, it looks like next week I’ll be going on another Road Trip. I gave fleeting thought to attempting to arrange a transport - after all, I’ve participated in several transports for other folks, along with countless home visits - but I found that I really want to meet Suzie, and I want to see the Baton Rouge shelter where little "Joe Lee" came from. Plus, on the way back, I will get to meet Jolie face to face and even get to see my sister, Pam!

I’ll take you all with me through the trip, and take lots of pictures along the way. This is going to be so much fun!




For now, we’re calling #7824 “Joe Lee.” For some reason, it just seems right.

And the Gypsy Heart and Farmer Feet are, for once, in agreement. This is definitely the right thing to do.