Our Winnebago limped its way into San Diego a month after we left New Jersey. By then, I'd had enough of trailer trash living. There were plenty of reasons why:
1. Near-death mishaps like the one at Hoover Dam.
2. The motor home breaking down every other day in the American Southwest at the hottest time of the year.
3. A bathroom no bigger than the trunk of a compact car.
4. My family at far closer proximity than anyone really needed.
In San Diego I discovered two more reasons:
5. I was not allowed to have a pet.
6. The camper, along with its many other engineering failures, had become electrified.
Well. That didn’t take long.
It shouldn't have been a surprise that we couldn’t have pets in the motor home. Before we left New Jersey, Ted the Light Bulb Salesman (before his promotion to Ted the Drug Dealer) insisted that we give away Lassie, a giant collie we’d had for as long as I could remember.
Ted the Light Bulb Salesman: “The camper is too small to have that dog in it. It weighs eighty pounds!”
Layne the Favorite (not for the first time): “She’s a she, not an it.” Lassie was his dog, which he reminded me at every opportunity.
Me: “I weigh eighty pounds.”
Mom: “SSSSStace. Hush. We know.”