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🌟 Itch Hiking



"That was fun," I said as the mailman van pulled into the driveway. I made sure to leave a little sand in the bed before dismounting to remind us of the time I taught myself to surf. "Now that the mailman van is a car-house and we can do anything we set our minds to, where should we go first?"


"Most of California is too hot this time of year," Mom said. She's always finding what's wrong with a place before she'll look for what's right. "We'd have to go somewhere along the coast where it's cooler..." I stayed quiet and waited for her to come around. "I know!"


My tail twitched in anticipation. "Where?! Malibu? Oh! I know! Muscle Beach!"


"How about we go back to that trail from the last day of our trip. The one in Big Sur," Mom said. "It was right on the coast, only a few hours away."


There was no holding my tail in place anymore. It wagged so hard that my ears flapped. "The one with the quesadilla place on the way?"


"That's the one. We can be ready to roll as soon as I finish work on Friday." She tapped the Witch to start planning the route.


"You can't get there from here," the Witch party pooped.


"Oh weird. We drove straight up here on the coast to get home, didn't we?"


"Until we stopped at the quesadilla place," I reminded her. "Don't you remember? It was the best part of the trip."


"So why does it say we have to go inland? This has us going half way to LA and back. What about that gorgeous road down the mountain?"


"We could just do the quesadilla part," I suggested.


"Remember how the peak was set back a little from the coast?" Mom asked, missing the point. "I bet we could come at it from the inland side. Maybe it's shorter that way."


"You mean the hot side?"


She gave me the look that she gives someone when they've made an un-funny joke. "It's the same mountain that touches the ocean, Oscar. There'll be fog on at least half of it. How hot could it be?"


Questions like that are how Mom cheats at arguments. She knows that dogs can't tell the future like she can.



Dogs can't count days of the week, either, but we can smell a Friday when it comes. The afternoon had that Friday flavor when Mom burst through the door.

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