Here's what I meant by driving 600 miles so Roo can get a good night's sleep

I have to be fast because I barely have any laptop battery and we're parked in a parking lot somewhere in Ohio on the way west. Here's what I mean in yesterday's post when I said that we were driving 600 miles so that Roo could get a good night's sleep.

Back when I bought this trailer, two months ago, Roo wouldn't even enter it. She did at the dealer, but once it came home, she wouldn't get in. Treats, chicken, even her favorite—salami—had no effect. 

What got her to come on board came, quite literally, out of the blue. It was a sunny day without a cloud in the sky. Suddenly there was one enormous crack of thunder. I have no idea what it was or how that happened. Perhaps a nearby nuclear plant exploded or the mixture was off in one of the neighborhood meth labs. Whatever it was, it sounded like thunder. If you were going to teach the basics of screenwriting to second graders, the first thing you would tell them on the first day is no deus ex machina—no acts of God to bail out your characters. If your heroine is about to get her head chopped off by terrorists, don't send a tornado to whisk her away. Have her use her brains. But, it was deus ex machina that saved me.

Roo came running over to me, especially frightened because she didn't have the usual warning of clouds and rain and who knows what else dogs can sense before a thunderstorm. She was terrified.

Seizing upon the lemon, I said, "Roo! Let's go hide in the trailer!" Now, this might not have been a great thing to do because I never encourage Roo to hide (she doesn't need the encouragement), but after a week or so of her refusing to get in the camper, I was starting to worry.

I ran (more of a crippled hop, but it was as good as anything Roo's seen me deliver) out the door and into the trailer. She followed me right in. That was pretty much that. Roo decided that she could safely enter the trailer. 

Inside the trailer, I had arranged her various beds in various places so that she could choose her spot. What I feared would happen, happened. And that was that Roo insisted on sleeping beside the bed. In Roo's universe, one is obliged to sleep beside a bed. Never at the foot of one, never (overnight) on one. Always to one side. She will lie on the bed in the evening, as in the accompanying photo, but when she wants to be alone, or when it's time to go to bed for the night, she always, without fail, sleeps beside the bed. It used to drive me crazy in motels. There would be nine filth-filled inches of space between the bed and the wall, and Roo would stuff herself in there and stay there all night. I would have to help her back out by pulling on her tail or ankles in the morning. So, I knew she was going to choose that spot.

The problem is that there is only 18 inches of space there. She can fit, but she can not lie on her side with her legs outstretched. And when she wants to turn around, she has to get up and wriggle around.

Roo needs to be alone more than any dog I've ever met. Every day, she wants to spend a few hours by herself. I'm sure this has to do with having been confined as a puppy. She learned to be alone. So, that space beside the bed, in this tiny trailer, is her only hope of refuge.

It is a miserable space, though. When Roo goes there, she grunts at it and lets out an exasperated sigh. Sometimes she digs the bedding up and gives me a dirty look. I made a bed that fits that space to maximize it, but it's just not big enough.

So, I called the factory. I explained the custom carpentry I wanted done. The bed rests on what is essentially a five-foot square box. that box needs to be removed and resized so that her regular bed—and she—will fit.

So, for that adjustment, we're in the middle of a 600-mile drive to a factory that, because it is Amish, is open only from 5AM to 1:30 PM. Tonight, we're in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel, which has kindly allowed us to drop anchor. Roo doesn't like the sound of the traffic and the fact that she didn't get to terrorize too many chipmouses today, but if only she knew that her frustration with the camper is about to end, I think even she might sacrifice a few days of being the rodent world's one-dog ISIS.

Roo lives in this camper, too. It's not right not to make it comfortable for her.

There we are. Sorry for the quick post, but my battery's about to go belly-up.