This is Morty's new favorite spot while we're moving - ie, snoozing on the "dog bed" up front, right between the driver's and buddy seats. (I wonder why Tim always exclaims, "Another cat picture! Oh, good! We just don't have enough of those.")

On our way to California, we stopped in Reno, NV, where Tim grew up, to visit his family. (Any Reno 911 fans out there? Tim loves his home city. I don’t think he really gets how the show makes fun of it. Or, maybe he’s just in denial. It’s been known to happen.) Since Tim was about to go to the Big House, we treated ourselves to a fabulous steak dinner at Harrah’s Steak House. We were chatting with our waiter, Tony, and discovered that (a ahem certain number of years later) he took over Tim’s boyhood paper route at the Reno Gazette.

I got treated to tons of uproarious biggest little city humor. You know, the kind that’s just so darn cute. (Fortunately, Harrah’s has quite the extensive wine cellar.)

“Didn’t you love trying to hit Mr. Krakowski’s cat when you threw the Sunday edition?” OK. Not really, but that might have been a wee bit more interesting, at least.

It sure is a small, small bus world, though.

Reno provided one more opportunity for nostalgia. On our way out of town, we stopped for gas at Baldini’s, the very same place during the start of our bus year, where the door finally jammed for good (after opening three times at 60 mph our very first day on the road, nearly sucking me out each time) and we had to call a locksmith to open it and save our pets from the sweltering 100 degree heat. He was supposed to stop by our RV park the next day to provide us with a more permanent fix, but never did show up. When I finally called his store, I was told that he had quit.

I guess seeing a grown psychiatrist cry was too much for any man.

When Tim and I traveled the Seward Highway south of Anchorage (to get to the Kenai Peninsula) during our bus year, we were struck by the moose warning signs. It seemed to us shrinks a rather perverse twist on the notion of constructive criticism, since rather than merely warning, they also announced how many of the beasts had been hit on Alaskan roads thus far in the year.

Fortunately, we were also not struck by a moose, as this Alaska State Trooper nearly was when one fell off a cliff.

This was actually the only moose we saw on Kenai - a cow and her baby.

(And, speaking of moose, see my Feb 1 entry to win a poopin' moose - and a copy of QUEEN OF THE ROAD, of course.)

He's up for Top Dog on Media Bistro's GalleyCat. It is the cutest picture, you must agree. Still, we'd appreciate your support. Vote here!

Here's the picture, as if you need any more incentive (and, yeah, yeah: So what if I submitted a shoe-in to GalleyCAT):

We're spending the holiday with dear friends this year, so I'd like to tell you about their very thankful dogs, Roberto and Bernie. I used to call Roberto, "The Luckiest Dog in the World" - until they got Bernie. You be the judge.

Roberto:

Handsome dog, no?

About five years ago, Jim and Lisa were vacationing in Mexico when Roberto, a Lab-Terrier-who knows what mix, came up to them on the beach. He was nothing but skin, bones and scabs: He was allergic to sand fleas and had scratched all his hair off. One hip was out of its socket, so his right leg was dragging. He couldn't get food because of how he looked: everyone shunned him - except Jim and Lisa. They took him to the vet, got him treatment and stayed in touch. Even the new and improved Roberto couldn't find a home, so Jim and Lisa arranged for him to fly back to the U.S. (he couldn't go unaccompanied, but they could only find someone to take him part of the way, so Lisa drove hours to meet him, where they stayed a night in a hotel before driving back) and adopted him. (If anyone calls immigration on them, you'll answer to me!)

Roberto quickly became the leader of their pack of four dogs (the two cats, not so much). And, I quickly discovered you can take the dog out of Latin America, but you can't take the Latin out of the dog. He has this way of sitting in front of you, flopping his head back and looking at you with those big, brown eyes that make you want to... well, buy him a plane ticket and run away with him. Perhaps that's why, when not calling him "The Luckiest Dog in the World," I call him, "The DILF."

Bernie:

You've probably gotten the impression by now that Jim and Lisa are softies when it comes to animals. It's no wonder, then, that they've volunteered for years at Best Friends as well as their local Humane Society. The latter is where they met Bernie.

Two years ago, Jim had seen Bernie, a Chow mix, come and go over several months. When Bernie came back to the Humane Society for the fourth time, the staff said he was now considered unadoptable: he jumped fences and tore up houses when left alone during the day. They were told by management to euthanize him - immediately. But, the staff knew he was a sweetheart of a dog who had simply never been taught proper manners and refused to put him down. They just weren't sure how long they could hold out. So, Jim asked if he could foster Bernie, to train him and turn him into an adoptable dog. It took months of painstaking work at home and on leash for hours every day. Jim fully intended this to be a temporary arrangement - at the time he and Lisa had Roberto and another large dog, as well as a cat. But, when no one stepped forward to give Bernie a fifth try, he stayed in the home he'd already found. (Which, seeing him with Jim and Lisa during the "foster care" stage, Tim and I figured would be the outcome.)

Bernie is a sweetheart of a dog, curious like a cat. He loves staring out the window, watching the world go by, pondering perhaps, on how lucky he is.

Maybe it's not quite a daring, cross-border rescue, or a last minute stay of execution, but what are you thankful for?

Dear Cindy Bear,

As Yogi's girlfriend, you were always so prim and proper. What happened? Fine. I suppose I shouldn't have told you and yours to "bring it on," after the tear-the-shed-door-off-its-hinges incident. For that, I am truly sorry.

When Tim and I heard a rustling outside our bedroom last night, little did we know you and your two cubs (they're Yogi's, right? They look just like him) were trying to get into the garage.

Tim says this is going to be much harder to fix than the shed door, because of all the raking and chewing you did. How about just knocking next time?

I'm also very sorry we scared you when we opened the bedroom door, screaming and banging, trying to get you to stop. We won't bother you, again. The noise you made very clearly illustrated how much you value your privacy.

That's why we were surprised when you returned 30 minutes later.

Tim, deciding you're no average bear, said we should store our garbage in the furnace room in the basement, but I was afraid you'd take that as an invitation to enter the house. No offense, but after what happened between Yogi and me, I just don't trust you around my husband. So, I did some research and feel it's only fair to warn you that we're placing ammonia-soaked pick-a-nick baskets in some of your favorite spots this evening. Please don't get mad, again. It's just that... we kinda like our doors. Seems you do, too. (Did you know our neighbors have even nicer, tastier ones? Promise! I wouldn't lie to my all-time, absolute favorite cartoon character.)

Speaking of Yogi, this isn't a jealousy thing, is it Cindy? Look, I know while at Jellystone, I slipped away from Tim whenever I could, so Yogi and I could be together...

But, Yogi loves YOU. It was just a fling. I don't mean anything to him. Tim's gotten over it. Why can't you? What do you want from me, already? (In addition to my doors.) I'm also sorry I posted this:

I didn't mean to rub your impressive nose in my muzzling in on your den. I'll make a deal with you: I'll destroy the picture, if you leave me, mine and our doors alone. I'll just have the memories. (And, what memories they are!)

If it makes you feel better, you should know that back then, I was two-timing Yogi with my own beast at the park:

On the bright side, this entire episode finally provided an answer to something that's been puzzling me: Why we're seeing so many more critters of every stripe and spot this year than we ever have before. Well, after researching how to disuade you from coming around, I realized that this is the first fall we've spent at the house since Miles died two years ago. He used to pee all over the yard. Ammonia. Who knew he was a working dog?

Or, that you'd be afraid of poodle pee.

Wishing you a restful - and long - hibernation,
Doreen

PS - You carry those extra pounds you're having to pack on this time of year quite well.