It May Not Be the Grand Canyon . . .

. . . but we call it home.  Yes, Ricky and I are on familiar turf again; we’ve been back in CT just over a week now.  Had a bunch of comforting “welcome home” comments waiting for us on the blog — from Pam, and Lang, and Naince, and Mary & Dante the Beagle, et al.  What I’m finding now that I’m back is that though I complained a lot about my

600-mile days, and my 40-second meals gobbled behind the Acura while Ricky had his pills, and my four-hours-per-night of sleep, I actually miss being on the road a good bit.  I still wake up thinking:  Gotta get in the car and knock off 500+

miles today.  Gotta figure out where those miles will land us, and make a motel reservation for me and my pardner.  And those never-ending road-thoughts — “I’d prefer the ground floor” . . . “would really like a room with a fridge” . . . “need to give Ricky his 10 PM meds” — keep banging around my head, refusing to fade away.

I also find myself thinking back fondly on how, for more than three weeks, Ricky and I were attached at the hip (though, I’ll admit, it sometimes drove me crazy); how he seemed to be under my feet wherever I turned; how we had the pleasure of each other’s company

24/7.  I assumed, once we got home, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight — but he flew to Luz, his patron saint (and the perpetual giver of food, love, attention, and anything else a dog could conceivably want), the moment he laid eyes on her.  It was kind of like, “Hank who?”  I guess I  should’ve known.

This weekend, pretty much all the freshmen in Robby’s gang are back from college, hanging out in Westport.  Robby came in from L.A. on the red-eye last night/this morning.  He and Ricky are together again.  Which kind of begs the question:  Why did Ricky and I drive all the way to Los Angeles?  Ah, well, as I’ve said before, it doesn’t really matter.  The road trip was worth it.  Well worth it.  Every minute.