In Dogged Pursuit of Highway Adventures

I have discovered the flaw in most modern station wagons, including my VW Passat. The back doors are hatchbacks, and so the back windows can’t be rolled down. While my husband and I had resigned ourselves to the fact that our children would never experience the hazardous joy of riding with their feet out basking in the sun and tail wind, we forgot about the dogs. Now that car seats occupy the second seat, our dogs are banished to the “way back� where there are no open windows. And for a dog, riding in a car without sticking your head out the window is like, well, taking a bath in a raincoat. Safer, perhaps, but sort of beside the point.

My older dog, Asta, is a terrier and she’s always had a few window issues. Even on tiptoes, she has a hard time getting her whole head out of a half-open window. (A few times, I rolled it all the way down, but she became so excited, she hitched herself up on the arm rest and almost fell out of the car.) So she spends most of her driving time stretched to her fullest height, her claws digging furrows into the window ledge, her round black nose pressed against the open air like a debutante inhaling the perfume of her first gardenia. At any change of speed, she loses her balance and falls to the floor, but such is the nature of love.

Meanwhile, our other dog, a black lab and pit bull mix, can sit in the back seat with her whole head in the breeze, regal and staid as she surveys the state of her kingdom. Asta pretends not to notice, but I fear it is yet another cause for tension in an already strained relationship.

I do not pretend to understand the passion many dogs have for window-snorting. Judging by their euphoric expressions, I can only assume it is the canine equivalent of seeing the face of God, or having really great sex. For sniffing-addicted dogs, like terriers, I imagine it’s an orgy of odors, a psychedelic blur of blossoms and decay, of territorial markings and heat, of dirt and grass and grease and bones and sky. For speed aficionados, like labs, it’s clearly a time of intense fantasy--the car soon slips away and it is only the dog herself claiming the open road, miles and miles of it, at speeds unimaginable. The Bionic Dog.

In fact, on those days when I am convinced that dogs and babies are the rulers of the universe, it is clear that Henry Ford must have had a dog with psychic powers, a degree in engineering and a very big dream.

Of course, not all dogs like the car. Frisky, the dog of my childhood, was an exemplary dog in all ways, but in the car, he was a drooler. Of prodigious proportions. For any trip over 20 minutes, either my brother or I would be forced to hold a beach towel under his muzzle until we reached our destination. Sometimes we would go through several towels. You can imagine what a popular task this was, the festive air it lent every trip. I think it may have been a factor in my brother’s decision, as an adult, to remain dogless.

Other dogs I have known are nervous drivers, refusing to sit, or continually seeking shelter in the driver’s arm; I have suddenly found myself in reverse due to an errant scrabbling paw. I have seen drivers with their dogs on their laps, or leaning against their shoulders, and frankly, I think they’re playing with fire. A well-timed bark, or well-placed claw and you try explaining that to your insurance company.

But usually, a dog is the best driving companion a person can have--while we see inconvenience and traffic, they see only adventure. Even stuck in the way back with the windows shut--they can always slobber on the glass, and that’s pretty fun too.

*

Mary McNamara can be reached by e-mail at [email protected].