Darn it all! Sometimes you just can't win! Now I know how all the dedicated Bigfoot researchers feel after years in the Oregon woods, finally snapping a photograph of their prey that will prove its existence to the world—only for the photo to turn out too blurry to present in a peer-reviewed paper on Entertainment Tonight. Or the UFO researcher, an entire lifetime spent traveling to that mountaintop near Area 51 where Grays routinely come in their UFOs to interview abduction candidates and provide them with the upcoming history of the world while taking them on a quick ride to the Pleides to meet their uncle, only to have the picture spoiled by a Frisbee thrown at the last minute by one of the CIA agents dressed in a Chewbacca outfit in order to impede truthseeking. Happens all the time. Come on. You've all seen those plumes of smoke coming off airplanes? The government wants you think they're just vapor trails. Everyone who knows the truth—that they're actually autism viruses designed to make the population compliant (and which sometimes yield unexpected results, like making people take Donald Trump seriously)—all those people now reside in a FEMA camp in the Bronx, which is close to Bill Clinton's Harlem office so he can keep an eye on things, and which is guarded by trained chupacabras, the same bloodthirsty animal employed by the Clintons to keep MSNBC from ever mentioning Bernie Sanders.
And so, imagine how I felt when the above image of a Chupacabra—the legendary, razor-toothed fiend whose name translates to goat sucker, for the wanton manner in which they consume the blood of prey—came back from the 1-Hour Photomat so badly out of focus. As a result, some people will claim that this is not a chupacabra at all, or some kind of set up. Or a dog or who knows what nonsense. Oh, I can hear the whinging all the way up here in Maine. All I can say is I was there, and you weren't. If this image isn't a chupacabra, what are you going to tell me next? That it's Roo or something?
Furthermore, if you don't want to take my word for it, take that of an esteemed wildlife scientist: Johnny Depp. He was brutally attacked by a chupacabra and had to fight it for two hours in a high-rise hotel room until he finally managed to fling it off the 23rd floor balcony onto the Tokyo streets below. You think any of the paparazzi—and they're professional photographers—managed to get a clean shot of the chupa? I rest my case.
We are far from civilization. It's 35 miles to the nearest market. We came off te mountain to try to figure out the weather and where to go next. No Canada. Nor will I ever go to Canada again.
It got late and we had no place to stay. There was an old sign for a camp. No one answered the phone and the place wasn't listed online. The road in was a toothbreaker. It took about 30 minutes to drag the camper up there.
At the end is one of the most beautiful spots Ive ever seen in America. No one but the camp is on the big lake. It is truly wilderness. Roo loves it.
Te weather is expected to take a bad turn, however, so we came off the hill to check the internet. In my inbox were several emails from TV producers and online media companies asking me to sign up with them. Somehow, the old video of Roo picking out her first toy had gone viral overnight. In the last hour it's had about 40,000 views.
Well, we're headed back up the hill so that Roo can have a swim, and so that we can try to figure out where we're going to park the camper next.
After sneaking out to bury eight bucks worth of bones, Roo tried to escape with this one, but was denied an exit visa from the camper.
We haven't got internet at the moment, so I'm posting this from the phone, which is problematic.
Just now I came across this while taking Roo for her last walk in America for a week or two.
The amount of dirt a dog accumulates remains constant, regardless of the size of the domicile in which they later distribute the load. The shaggiest dog can not, alone, make a castle dusty. In a tiny trailer, a dog of Roo's caliber, in a space this small, brings to mind Woody Allen's curse, "May all the sands of the desert fill your navel."
Greetings from northern Maine. A water pump gave out on us and we had to spend the day at a repair place called Mountain Road RV in Sabattus, Maine. These guys not only took on the job on a priority basis, they ironed everything out and billed a factory they don't even have a warranty arrangement with. On top of that, John, the owner, took the time to give me in-depth technical explanations, a virtual lesson in some of the trailer's components (our trailer is superb–completely worth the two years of looking and researching. The only thing about it that isn't good is the documentation). Thanks, you guys! What a great experience.
Tonight, we are in a tiny campground a couple of hundred miles from the Canadian border, over which we will cross tomorrow. I was hoping to make it to Labrador or Newfoundland, but it doesn't look like it's going to be possible. The ferry ride to Newfoundland (where Labs are from; Newfoundlands are from Labrador. The wires on that one got crossed years ago and it stuck) is 6-8 hours, and dogs have to stay in the car, and people can not visit the cars. What a pitiable reason not to be able to go, but unless there's another way (well, the have kennels, but there are picture of the crew leading muzzled dogs to them, and the shipping company says it is really, really not preferable, and I believe them), so much for Orville's ancestral homeland. One can drive to Labrador, but only trailers insulated as well as Labradors or Roo could go this late in the year. We're out of luck.
On exiting a pond in Maine today, Roo sank up to her chest in muck. Naturally that inspired her to stick her entire face in as far as it would go. Judging from how difficult it was to get this mud off her, it must have been made of the same stuff as the La Brea Tar Pits. Had little Roo dawdled for a few seconds more, she would have been solidified and preserved until paleontologists 120 million years from now discovered her. Instead, an equivalent amount of science had to be brought to bear to get this crud off her. Not An Easy Dog™ strikes again.
And how do you like that two-tone job, with the ears untouched?