Right out the gate, RV life began proving to be abundantly conducive for the both of us. I engineered power through a heavy duty extension chord which primarily meant that we could have light when it got dark, and heat when it got cold. I parlayed those essentials up against some additional luxuries, most notably a mini-fridge, a coffee maker, and a toaster. In addition, Lore presented both Quinn and I with the “Mi Casa es su Casa” formula. I genuinely felt like we had hit the jackpot.
Having this RV in my arsenal provided that metaphorical doggie-door, that opening to leave Quinn behind when the moment called for it. At first I wasn’t sure how she was going to handle this new kind of separation, yet in the end it didn’t phase her a smidge.
Like most canine intellects, Quinn usually sensed when potential separation was brewing. It was more than just sounds and movements that tipped her off, assigning her to ready mode. It was almost like she could read my mind, doing all she could to eliminate a perceived vanishing act on my part. And most of the time she got it right. However, some of the time she didn’t.
When she was right, she was right. Yet when she was wrong, it was always my 12-word ‘off command’ which evolved during our 90-day work van experiment. It worked with such omnipotence that even to this day, when detachment looms, I use those same exact lines, spoken the same exact way. It started like this: “No dog, you ain’t goin.”
That line right there can actually stand alone, as will forever be evident by the dejected complexion that overtakes her. Head lowers, ears shrink, tail droops, the full nine. Therefore, and it’s nothing more than good old fashioned reassurance, I’ve always followed that line up with, “I’m coming back, I won’t be long.”
I would pull up somewhere and park the van, and without fail, before I could even turn off the van, she was patiently waiting by the slider. And she’d be right nine times out of ten. But in those rare off cases, it again began with, “No Dog, you ain’t goin”.
And without fail, time and time again, before I could even finish the initial part of this make believe command, she’d have already jumped back up into the passengers seat. And she’d be so elegantly about-faced that it just felt right to button it all up with, “I’m coming back, I won’t be long.”
I can’t say for sure, because, well because it’s impossible to know every single thing there is to know about man’s best friend. And it’s not like she can ever talk to me about how she is feeling. But obviously, or maybe not so obviously, a huge portion of the communication between human and animal is unqualified interpretation. Spend enough time with anything, and take my word for it, anything becomes possible. My best guess is that she has made perfect sense of my word(s), knowing for certain that I always come back and that I’m never too long.
But these were different times. She now had this Recreational Vehicle to freely access in and out, plus a safe and sunny backyard at her disposal. Elliot the Cat was never too far away. King Zeus was usually around. There was even a three-pack of hens to soften up the pecking order. Although Quinn was, is, and will surely forever be a bit of a Lone Wolf, she does have a spot for well behaved, genteel company. And that’s what her new set of friends were.
I could really tell that Quinn was becoming exceedingly comfortable with her new living environ. Instinctively, staying behind was always her second choice, yet I began taking notice how eager and excited she always seemed to be to get back to the RV after a long day out in the so called real world. That enthusiasm most likely had a lot to do with her new spot that got referred to as The Carousel. Ahh, The Carousel.
By Thanksgiving I finally had some down time to do a little investigative interior refiguring. I began by tidying up the the cab portion of the RV where the driver & passenger seats are, the front console, the steering wheel, etc.. An ample amount of overall space that essentially was being wasted.
While tidying, I unwittingly gouged a few knuckles on a thick piece of metal under the passenger side seat. That piece of metal turned out to be a lever. That lever enabled the passenger seat to swivel counterclockwise and face inward. Whoa! I figured if the passenger seat swiveled in, so would the driver’s seat. I was right. Now both seats were facing towards each other, and I had blood on both hands to prove it.
First thing I did was fill the gap between the two seats until it became flush with both the seats. I then modified an old piece of 8-inch bed foam and placed it over the entire domain. Next, and by utilizing both seat backs, the steering wheel, and the console as backing, I created a circular, padded border around the entire precinct. The final step of course was loading up this corral with all her favorite blankets, sleeping bags, pillows, etc.
All said and done, my medium sized Red Heeler had like twenty, newly created square feet of pure dog bed extravagance. Easily big enough for a full sized Saint Bernard. It was its own guest bedroom!
To get into The Carousel, all she had to do was make the measly two foot jump up through the carved out entryway, and bingo, her own private Idaho. Her new spot put her at a height where she could oversee everything that was happening inside the RV. And thanks to both the driver and passenger windows, plus the gigantic front windshield, her new spot also put her in position to see everything that was happening outside the RV as well.
She absolutely coveted her new spot, and I loved that she loved it. Not only did it remove her out from underneath my feet all the time, preventing me from always having to watch my step, but it also gave her the appearance of being the captain of her own ship. The pilot of her own plane.
Since the word Throne had already been used up to describe the passenger’s seat of the work van, it was Carousel that stuck. The Carousel would go on to serve her for the next 36 months of her life.