As an immigrant to Canada who grew up on a farm, my dad never learned to drive a car until he was in his mid-30s. Apparently even then, he obtained his license only because the partner in his butcher shop, who had been the sole driver for store deliveries, once referred to the business car as “my car.” Incensed (since he was paying 50% of the vehicle costs), my dad began driving lessons that very weekend.
His “instructor” was my maternal uncle, a taxi driver. Up until that time, Uncle S (whose family lived in the upper level of the duplex we inhabited) had been the sole driver in our extended family. By default, weekends were family time, and if we had to drive somewhere, Uncle S was the chauffeur.
One of the family’s favorite activities on weekends was driving out to the countryside in Quebec’s Eastern Townships, about an hour from our house. They’d admire the various homes other people owned, while dreaming of one day owning one themselves.
My mom and her sister would “oooh” and “aaahhhh” at all the lovely country homes with their cozy yards enclosed by actual picket fences, the acres of land surrounding some of them, and the occasional behemoth “cottage” that was nothing more than a shoi off with its circular driveway, multiple garages and gated entry.
“Who must live in there?” my mother would wonder, her voice swept with awe.
“I bet it’s the Steinbergs’ new country house,” my aunt might reply, “they just opened a couple new stores, so they can afford it.”
It was lovely once we reached the destination and could speculate about who owned what or what might hide behind the jacquard drapes. During that hour or so, five year-old me would gaze out the back windows, entranced by the endless fields, the wooden homes so unlike our boxy brick duplex, the occasional cows or horses loitering in the fields.
But getting there. . . that was another story.
One of my uncle’s favorite pranks was “Let’s Scare Ricki.” Knowing that I was an anxious child who was uncomfortable veering far from familiar territory, he’d begin his prodding almost as soon as we left the house.
Once on the highway–which, to a young girl, always looked like we’d landed on some unexplored planet–he’d cluck a few times, look left and right, then remark, “Hmm, I wonder if I took a wrong turn.”
“What?” My ears would flush with heat. “What do you mean? But you do know where you’re going, right?”
A slight hesitation. “Well, I’m not exactly sure. . . maybe. . . what do you think [turning to my dad], Alec?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure. . . .” my dad would reply, barely keeping his giggle in check.
By this time, I was upright, pulling against the back of Uncle S’s seat. “But we’re not lost, are we, Uncle S? We’re not LOST?!” The panic rose in my throat.
“I think maybe we’re lost,” he said. I couldn’t understand why the adults were all chuckling.
At this, I’d begin to cry. “Oh nooooo. . . we’ll never be able to get home!” Visions of my favorite doll, our dog, my bed. . . all gone, forever.
At this, my mother couldn’t stand it any longer and turned round, patting my hand. “No, he’s just joking, Ricki. We know where we’re going. We’ll get home, don’t worry.”
I’d crumple in a heap of relief, curled in a ball in the back seat. By then, we were usually already at the closest town and ready to tour the neighborhood. I could focus on enjoying the scenery–until the trip back home, of course.
Why did my uncle and the other adults find it amusing to torture a young child that way? No idea. To them, it was funny. Another era.
Thankfully, I got over my fear of travel (thank you, half-dozen or so therapists) and embraced my evolving wanderlust over the years. While I haven’t been everywhere I dreamed of (yet), I’m happy with the journeys I’ve made so far.
Maybe it’s the fact they seem to have a built-in GPS that can get them home even after several detours (like Jimpa, the Australian dog who walked 2000 miles (3218 km) to get home to his owners), but dogs seem open to any and all peregrinations.
Our dogs, at least, have always loved to explore new places and locations. While I doubt Zoey–despite her Australian cattle dog genes–could make it across the country on her own, she’s always happy when we check out new vistas.
The first summer after the pandemic, when people were still told to “shelter at home” except for activities outdoors, we took the opportunity to explore some of the nearby towns. Each weekend, we’d venture out to a different local community within driving distance, walk around for an hour or so with the dogs, then drive home.
To the dogs, this was heaven. New scents, new scenery, new paths and places to explore. As soon as we parked the car, Zoey would be scratching the door to get out. Tail wagging, straining on the leash, it was all we could do to keep her with us.
And why not? Changing up the scenery every now and again is not only good for your mind, it’s good for you physically, too.
Clearly, dogs inherently know this fact, and are always open to new adventures. I think it’s a great idea for me (and maybe you?), too. I intend to be open to all manner of novel adventures this week–whether visiting a new part of the city, trying out a new food, meeting people I wouldn’t normally encounter–you get the idea.
Think of your adventures like driving to the countryside, exploring new scenery and locales. Just please, don’t invite my Uncle S to take the wheel.
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Now over to you:
Share the best adventure you’ve ever had. Or, maybe, the worst? Up to you!
As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoy Be the Dog, please consider recommending it to someone else–or becoming a paid subscriber to support me and my writing. I’d be eternally grateful either way!
Sister, they surely do! Sinbad knows when he is left out even for a simple errand. He whines by the door and moans and generally irritates whoever is in the house. He isn't much better in the car as watches innumerable pee-pee spots flash by (the dog that pees on the most things wins). It means the world to them. Of course, if our noses were 10,000 times better, we might enjoy a change of scenery as well.