Some notes, from the road.

There’s a rest area in Arkansas, just past Little Rock, where if you drive past a gate in the back, you come to a wildlife area which is usually a nice place to let Woody run around. Usually. It’s hunting season and a bow hunter told me to get that dog in some orange. Which, fair point.

Woody likes the Smokey mountains, where he should also be wearing orange. I really need to stop at a Bass Pro and get him a vest or something.

Tennessee drivers are fucking nuts. But not as nuts as the three dudes walking down the shoulder of I-40, carrying a deer strung on a pole between two of them, the third dude, trailing behind with the rifles.

We don’t wanna drive anymore. So we’re hanging out at this state park in the Smokeys after chasing some squirrels. Really need to get him an orange vest.

I always hit this point, where I just don’t wanna, but the only way to not have to drive anymore is to keep going. Why did I do this? So Woody could come to thanksgiving? He doesn’t give a fuck about Thanksgiving. He’d rather live right here in this park and chase squirrels.

Ordering a regular regular outside of New England is like trying to order a mustard whopper outside of Texas, as in, don’t bother, you’re just gonna have to explain it anyway.

(We’re not sleeping in the van but it’s nice to have the option. He doesn’t ride back here, it’s just nice to have a spot for him to chill and rehydrate after 4 hours of panting, which he will always do in a vehicle. People told me he’d get used to it eventually. So I drove fourteen thousand miles with him panting to prove them wrong.)