Does Van Life with My Dog Work After 4 Years?
We may be reaching a fork in the road and my dog seems to have a lot of questions
Hello, readers.
Heads up. I am facing a major decision. Does van life still work for us after four years? We arrived in Mexico in January, and I was hoping to spend the rest of the year here.
But my dog has been hanging out with some Mexican street dogs who put some funny ideas in his head. He sort of unloaded those ideas on me, which led to my story below.
We are heading into the world of my imagination here, so buckle up and hang on.
After talking to some Mexican street dogs, my loyal companion and best friend, Mr. Bones, got the idea that our four-year-long van life journey may have been a trip through the afterlife of Aztec myth, and that I may have been dead the whole time.
If you want to know whether the rumor of my untimely death is true or not, read on. For more on Mexican street dogs, see the Afterword.
***
We arrived in Mexico by road in early January, crossing at Nogales and drifting south through Sonora, Sinaloa, and Nayarit before heading upland to find cooler weather.
We are now at an undisclosed, high-altitude town located in Michoacan state, code-named “Past Sorrow,” in case the cartel is reading my blog. (I am not supposed to be here, so please don’t tell the U.S. government. They will just worry about me.)
My goal for this stay is to become more fluent in Spanish. FYI, Mr. Bones does not worry about speaking Spanish; he speaks dog, an international language.
While I slump over my computer in the afternoons for hours at a local coffee shop trying to learn Spanish from Duolingo, Mr. Bones hangs out with a few friendly street dogs that we found lounging comfortably at the la Tiendita Verde garden and cafe.
I asked the server, Ana, about them.
“They are nice dogs,’ she told me. “Most of the customers like them, so we let them in.” “So, who are they?“ I asked.
She said, pointing to the first dog, “Pirata (Pirate), the white, short-haired dog with one black eye, is the ringleader.”
“That one over there,” she pointed again, “is Gordo (Fatso). He’s a lovable, lazy lug.”
“And what about the little one?” I asked, nodding toward the smallest dog. She said, “Oh, that is Frijol (Bean). She is a high-strung Chihuahua mix.”
“Oh, by the way,” she said, “Frijol farts a lot.” “Thanks for the warning,” I said.
“They stop by from time to time and enjoy meeting new dogs,” she added. Indeed. The street dogs were busy sniffing Bones’ butt and telling stories about life on the street.
I went on with my work and forgot about them.
Sitting at my feet, they asked Bones where we had been. Mr. Bones told them about our life on the road in a campervan full-time for four years, crisscrossing America’s highways, stopping at gas stations, frequently fleeing danger, and almost dying.
“Hold on!” said Pirata, jumping to his feet, his ears and tail at attention. “I’m getting a message from above about your story. It’s coming in now… You won’t believe this!”
“What is it?” Mr. Bones asked, cocking his head to one side in curiosity. “Tell me!”
“The spirit dogs are talking about your time on the road…” Pirata mumbled, his eyes closed. “The vision is clearer … The campervan is actually … a row boat.”
Gordo jumped up, “I hate it when you get spirit dog visions. My hackles are up!” Gordo and Bones began to howl. Frijol covered her eyes with her paws and farted loudly.
Pirata scowled and barked, “Settle down!”
Pirata continued. “The spirit dogs say the highways you traveled … may actually be underground rivers of the afterlife…”
“Last…” Pirata said, after everyone settled down, “Last, the dangers you faced … represent the nine levels of danger in the Aztec afterlife.”
“That’s crazy,” Mr. Bones said. “But I still don’t get it. What does all of this mean?”
“Don’t you see?” Pirata said, “You may be on an Aztec afterlife journey with a dead man. The Aztecs believed faithful dogs guided dead humans on a long afterlife journey.”
“Holy shit,” Bones said, looking at me. “He does seem kinda dead. Like, when he is working. He just sits there for hours, staring at the computer, without moving.”
‘And traveling with that crazy guy has been terrifying,” Bones added. “Sure,” Pirata said. “Xolo, our famous Aztec hairless dog ancestor, told us that it would be.”
Mr. Bones sighed, “I can’t believe he’s been dead all this time and I didn’t notice.”
After talking to the street dogs, Mr. Bones began acting oddly. He stared at me in an unsettling way. Suspicious, I said, ‘Hey, what were those dogs talking about?”
Bones said, “Well, this may be hard for you to hear. The street dogs told me you’re probably dead. All your wandering around in a van may be a journey to the afterlife.”
Oh, no. I had been afraid of this moment since I got Mr. Bones. It sounded to me like he was tired of full-time travel and beginning to resent van life. And maybe me, too.
I worried even more about this since we arrived in Mexico. Now, one of the street dogs had spilled the Aztec beans.
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I thought you loved being my van life buddy. How could a dead man feed you twice a day? I may be old and tired, but I’m not dead.”
Bones said, “Hey, don’t get upset. Don’t let your being dead ruin a good thing for me.”
I said, “You’re my best friend, my compañero. I thought you loved me. And van life.”
Mr. Bones dropped his head and averted his eyes.
I continued. “You rest your head on my chest in the morning, listening to my heart beat. That makes me feel that you love me…”
“Then … you lick my face gently every morning when you get hungry for breakfast …”
“Sorry, dude,” Bones cut in, “I have to put my head on your chest in the morning to listen for a heartbeat. I have to lick your face to wake you up. You sleep like the dead. ”
I shook my head. So the head on my chest wasn’t affection? My head spun. I felt he was rejecting not only me but my nomadic lifestyle, which I assumed he enjoyed.
I had to explain my reasons for taking him with me on the road instead of settling down somewhere, like a normal person. And make him see it wasn’t an afterlife trip.
“We’ve been on the road in the same red van for four years,” I said. “I do the driving. How could you guide my afterlife journey? You still can’t find our old red campervan...”
“Hold up, that hurt.” Bones interrupted, again. “Dude, dogs are colorblind. I have no idea what color the van is. If you’d just let me pee on it, I could find it by smell.”
I told him, “Pee on a tree, not on my van.” He retorted, “At least the trees stay still.”
Now I got it. He wasn’t in love with van life. And his canine feelings were hurt.
Next, he hung his head. “Sorry, I’m not a good guide dog. But you knew from the start that I couldn’t read road signs. You never tell me where we’re going or where we are.”
I felt bad. “That’s true,” I said. “No wonder you often look confused when we arrive.”
He said, “I don’t know where we’re going, or how long we’re going to keep traveling. I wish I had my own place. When I pee on trees, I like them to stay peed on for a while.”
“Sorry, Bones,” I said. “I know we’ve been on the road a long time. Someday, we’ll get a house with a yard and a fence. You’ll have your own tree to pee on every morning.”
“That would be nice,” he said, wagging his tail. “Promise?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, wondering silently how soon I could find such a place and stop meandering.
But what about him? How long had he been planning to find another human?
“I have to ask you something,” I said. “When we go to coffee shops, you make googly eyes at the customers, especially women. Are you looking for a human to replace me …”
“Look,’ he said, cutting me off. “Put yourself in my place. A dog has to know where his next meal is coming from. I need to line up a new human before you, umm, croak.”
He did not know it, but I was still very much alive and had no intention of dying soon.
“Look, Mr. Bones,” I said. “I may not be the most exciting guy in the world, but I’m not dead. I will probably live for a long time. How about sticking with me, please?
After a pause, he flashed his famous pittie grin at me, tail wagging, and said, “Ok.”
That’s a relief. Maybe we will continue in van life for a while longer, while I try to decide what to do when I grow up and finally figure out where to settle down.
The clock is ticking, though. I’m not getting any younger: more things hurt with each passing month and year; another serious illness or injury could end my van life days.
By the way:
If you ever travel to Mexico with your dog, be careful of what the street dogs might say.
If you suddenly realize that you are dead, let your dog know immediately. It’s only fair.
AFTERWORD
Many of you are dog lovers and may be surprised to learn there are 15 million street dogs in Mexico. I have prepared a short piece on the issue of street dogs in Mexico. In it, I present a few facts, then consider some ethical aspects of street dogs.
(LINK)
Love to Mr Bones!
The detail of Mr. Bones putting his head on your chest every morning "to check for a heartbeat" absolutely got me.