The dog is lost. No, he didn't jump out of the truck, he just can't find a proper piece of grass in all the rock gardens. He's apparently gonna hold it until we cross the mighty Mississip for some true personal time. That, and nothing smells right, I'm sure. I could have sworn the whole back end of California smelled like propane and propane accessories.
Thus our dog has this sad expression as we set down for the evening:
Were in the local motel; they advertised it as being in a town, but it really is a glorified truck stop with room service. I always thought that it was an elitist's exaggeration when all the tough guys, the wise guys, the paisans, et al, made fun of the local talent's marinara sauce turns out they were actually right.
Not that I'm an expert, but I ordered fettuccine alfredo and I got spaghetti noodles with (breakfast biscuit) gravy, and a few chicken fingers tossed in. Jackie says chickens don't have fingers, so Gods only know what they're really made out of, but my bet is either chicken butts or that little rubbery flappy thingy on chicken legs.
We're tired, there's some Carrie Underwood thing on the t.v. (the other choices being Telemundo recaps), the dog has claimed the bed and Jackie is soaking in the tub.
Did I ever tell you that wherever we went, we got the special extra tall toilet seats? The kind that make you think you're a little kid again? Yeah, the tradition continues.