After twenty-four days and
six seven Western states, I came home a few nights ago, the last miles cloaked in classic Oregon fog ‘n rain. What a great trip! My friend Ulrich and I enjoyed front row Toyota seats to landscapes that changed daily. We stopped in towns that cling to life by a thread, and in busted ones that couldn’t. I think we saw every color of rock and bush and tree and rusted automobile, all of them on a wide, bright screen.
When we needed them, kind people saved the day with their music and stories, and character. We never had a bad day.
On our next-to-last evening we stayed in a back room at a haunted bar in Goldfield, Nevada. That’s where I met Dave, a regular customer and genuinely friendly fellow who is rumored to be the favorite in the next mayoral election. Dave also happens to be a Basset hound, but that’s beside the point.
Until that night I’d kept The News at bay—only a couple of sports pages and an accidental glance at a TV had sullied that—and I can tell you, I traveled with a clearer mind and heart. But Dave’s motives were quickly and utterly convincing—how can there ever be scandal or rumors when a candidate’s only desires are sleep, pizza crusts, and affection? A few rubs of Dave’s big soft ears sealed the deal for me.
You can bet I’ll hesitate a second or two when I mark my ballot.
I love a dog. He does nothing for political reasons. —Will Rogers