UNSTUCK: TRAVELS WITH LULU
Reflection, Rumination & Rhetoric From the Road (Pre-Launch)
When Harry S Truman was President of the United States he was famous for having said, “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”
Whether he said it or not, this statement can be applied to just about anywhere. A canine’s love is unconditional.
Lulu, my chihuahua and spiritual adviser, was literally handed off to me as I left a bar. One moment she’s in the arms of Queen Barb, who’d rescued her from a large litter in the wine valley and was temporarily looking after her, and the next moment this tiny pup, not much larger than a rat, was pressing against my midsection.
I got behind the steering wheel of my car and the chihuahua proceeded to gnaw away at my knuckles, as if to say, Who the hell are you and where you taking me?
I drove her around the corner to my house, expecting this situation to be a joke that would be remedied next day when I returned her to Barb. Little did I know this feisty chihuahua would be bloodying my knuckles for the next three months.
Unable to access the keys in my pocket after pulling into the driveway because my hands were full of Italian takeout and pooch, I rang the doorbell. Both my daughters, expecting pizza and pasta, squealed with delight when they opened the door and beheld our surprise guest.
Two other family dogs, so-called chihuahuas without pedigree (one turned out to be a miniature huskie, the other part skunk), became frenzied with excitement over their unexpected brethren, who fiercely objected to their entreaties and held her own with snarls and sharp teeth.
My reward for scooping her up to assist an escape from her predicament was a new series of punctures on my knuckles.
My daughters implored me to keep her—at least for a short while.
A short while turned into a long while. And even after three months I remained indifferent to the chihuahua we named Lulu, though she refused to answer to her name. So when she got sick and refused to eat or leave her bed I was indifferent to her plight, assuming she’d get over it. It was my mother who intervened the day after Christmas and insisted I take her to a vet.
The only veterinary hospital open for emergencies over the holidays was 30 minutes away in Ventura and so, with Lulu cuddled quietly on my lap (no knuckle gnarling), we drove there and waited four long hours while the vet conducted a series of tests. It was serious. Due to whatever bug she’d picked up, Lulu had become severely dehydrated.
Ultimately, all the vet could do was shoot her full of water until she had a large hump on her back like a camel.
“Shall I leave her with you overnight?” I asked, feeling bad and striving for the best care possible.
They shrugged. “Won’t matter. She’ll either make it through the night or she won’t.”
That stunned me.
I drove Lulu home. Next morning she was still alive—and even up and about. She had survived.
And something interesting happened. To us both. Understanding, it seemed, that her life had been spared, Lulu’s aggressive disposition toward me—toward life in general—changed completely.
No more gnawing and bloodying my hands. She was suddenly appreciative of the life she was living.
And I, reflecting her appreciation, found a place deep in my heart for her.
Lulu has enjoyed several lives since then. We almost lost her on two occasions to bee stings.
Her response to getting stung the first time was to crawl off and die somewhere. I looked everywhere and finally found her panting heavily in a secluded far off corner of the garden. I ran her to the vet for a shot of Benadryl.
And then there was the mudslide of January ‘18, when she’d disappeared for several hours, presumed buried. (That experience, written up earlier on Substack.)
So there’s no question about Lulu joining me—unstuck and officially homeless—on a cross-country road trip, partly as a nod to John Steinbeck and his classic Travels with Charley, and partly because I would never think of leaving her behind.
Lulu is the perfect travel companion: No agenda, aside from sniffing, doing biz and two square meals a day. As for baggage: A doggie bed, fleece blanket and portable water dish. Oh, and a bag of Jack Link’s Original Beef Jerky. (She won’t go near a meal unless it’s flecked with jerky.)
At 69, I’m at a crossroads about where to live, what company to keep, still questioning existence. I’ve enjoyed a quite fascinating life. And now I need to undertake an adventure that has been on my bucket list for half a century, open my soul to the road from one coast to the other.
A decade ago I purchased a vehicle for that specific purpose. And though I took it on a few marathon road trips—south to north, Montana and back; up to Colorado, a loop through the San Juan Mountains; up to Seattle and back for a book tour—I never made it cross-country.
Free to be me. That’s the concept. See where the road leads. Answers? New questions? Inspiration? An epiphany? This is truly about the journey, not the destination.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Persig comes to mind: Relaxed, living life to the fullest and being in motion, totally in the moment.
On the cusp of turning 70, now’s the time.
And same with Lulu, mostly deaf, partly blind, going on 15, not too elderly for a chihuahua but you never know.
To quote Jack Kerouac: “There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.”
What a great little guy! Good luck on your road trip!