I had just settled in for a long morning nap after a four mile walk and three-squirrel sighting when I heard my father’s voice speak the magic words.
“We’re going for a ride.”
My ears shot up like antennae. Then, a canine cacophony of hyena wails, hawk screeches, seal barks, and other animal-kingdom sounds flew out of my mouth. I threw in a howl or two like the good husky I am.
“Here come the Zoomies,” my mother said as she went into the bathroom.
“What?” my father asked.
She was right. I raced around the room, jumped on the bed, ran in circles and finally collapsed panting. And, I still didn’t know where we were going.
My mother finally exited from the bathroom. “Which winery are we stopping at first?”
My father has talked about visits to wine clubs, but I never understand what that meant. I know it’s not like the Pet Club, because he only comes home with bottles and glasses—unlike the Pet Club where there are treats and toys.
Still, I’m always ready for a new experience.
We drove up 101 which I am quite familiar with smell-wise, because it usually means I’m headed to the Country Inn—except we kept going. Shortly thereafter, my father opened both back windows.
“New smells for Ponzi,” he said.
“Do you mean because we’re passing the K9 Activity Lodge and Inn?” my mother asked.
I’m going there?
“There’s lots of dog action in the yard,” she said.
I didn’t see because my nose was in the air.
When we arrived at the winery, my father went into the tasting room. Since my mother and I only drink water, we walked around and checked out the surroundings. I peed on a shrub and sampled the crab grass by the vineyards. When I tried to nibble a grape off the vine, my mother yanked me away.
Were we boycotting grapes in support of the farm workers like my mother’s family did in the mid-‘60s.
I know about these things because I’ve been raised in a very progressive household. Over the years many political discussions—past and present issues—have taken place around our dining room table. I’m usually dozing underneath, but always listening.
This time her remark wasn’t political.
“Grapes are toxic to dogs.”
After one more smell around the property, we waited for my father who exited the building with one of those mysterious boxes. We got in the car and stopped at one more winery where I was welcomed inside.
On the way home I slept as if in a drunken stupor. Must have been the water. I’m ready to go wine tasting again.