Dog in a Hot Tin Box

I saw a post recently on hashtag-vanlife asking the general community… ‘Should I travel long-term with my dog?,’ and with the insight of retrospect, I most heartily agree with option 1 - ‘Do not.’

Check the smile (right). Nick Cody recently did a stand-up bit at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival outrageously suggesting that staffies are the dog choice made by bogans - ‘No one on the BRW Top 200 Richest List’ would be seen being dragged around their Cremorne neighbourhood by one of these concrete-mixers on legs. Touché Nick, but I thought a night in our Mitsub-shitty Express would have been right up the back-alley of a bogan-dog.

It’s easy to romanticise the experience of heading out on the road, banger tunes, an esky full of adult-friendly beverages and a bulk-buy value-pack of cheezels. The beach at Currumbin was glorious, the water was just cooler than the late summer sunshine. We’d spent all our time in the water, a solid four hours of luxuriating in the little swell, rolling in and out. Easy days. A late dinner on the sand, a few red wines out of a plastic camp mug with tea stains and travel damage, and finally bed time, huzzah!! But she’s got no self control, this dog.

Oh, the night of horrors. Every movement on the beach, every new car in the lot, every f%cking seagull on the coast of gold. For the love of the Christmas, dog. Lay Down. But no. Up and Down. In and Out. Scratch and Pant. Spin and Attempt to Leap out of the Van in the Middle of the Night. At 4am I got up and took her for a walk. I pretended to be a member of the cool surfer community who got up early to scan the breaks with steaming thermoses jammed under their tanned arms. But really I just wanted a little cry and a lie down.

What isn’t communicated in the image above is the bone-tingling high-pitched screaming whinge which all staffies are known for. Despite the smile, Lucy is whining straight at my face because it had been approximately 30 minutes since she was allowed near the water. Because this was her best ever day.

As G and I continue to make little improvements to Van-essa (the van) Lu-lu has been permanently placed in the front seat, ready to go on her next adventure. So while she may not be a part of the long-term hashtag-vanlife fur-baby movement, and I resolutely voted ‘Do not,’ we’ll make sure she is involved in day-trip escapades, because her unwavering patience while we spent three days scrubbing out 14 years’ of grime from a painter’s van, was worth the single sleepless night and a face-full of banshee screaming.

For further insight prior to this #vanlife experience with my anxiety-ridden fur baby, please see previous blog post Trumpy - My Kinda President.