Travels with Casey

by Benoit Denizet-Lewis

  It doesn’t take an advanced psychology degree, though, to realize the most compelling reason I was dropping everything to travel around the country with an animal: I hoped to find some answers about my fraught relationship with Casey. I wanted—I needed—to feel better about my dog. Maybe other dog lovers could show me the way.

  “I’m going to think of myself as a failure if I get back from this and nothing has changed between me and him,” I told Dr. Gold. “This trip is a chance for Casey and I to bond, to get closer, to better understand each other.”

  “Do you really expect some profound change from this voyage?” he asked.

  His skepticism surprised me. Everyone that I’d told about the trip agreed it would be a great bonding experience for Casey and me. Was that wishful thinking?

  Dr. Gold looked down at Casey and then back at me. “You and Casey have had eight years to figure each other out,” he said. “I just don’t want to see you set yourself up for failure if there isn’t any seismic shift in your relationship. It may just be another thing for you to feel shame about.”

  I sighed, prompting Casey to look toward me from his position on the floor. This seemed to animate Dr. Gold.

  “See what happened right there?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You sighed, and Casey looked at you and checked you out. I think you downplay, or simply don’t notice, all the ways that you guys are already connected. He is deeply connected to you.”

  I shook my head. “I often sigh right before I’m going to get up,” I explained. “If Casey hears a sigh, he thinks I’m about to get up, and if I get up, he might be getting a walk. I don’t think he looked at me because he’s particularly worried about me.”

  Dr. Gold laughed in exasperation. “You’re as hard on your dog as you are on yourself!” he said. “I’m interested in what’s going on in you that you can’t accept that you have a real connection to this dog. It seems like you’re desperate for Casey to speak and say, ‘Hey, Benoit, you’re really okay.’ ”

  At that moment, footsteps outside the office prompted Casey to bark loudly, which he’s prone to doing when he hears an unexpected noise outside whatever room he’s occupying. The disruption even riled up Dova, who Dr. Gold had told me earlier was “mostly deaf.” Apparently not. For about ten seconds, our dogs engaged in a barking showdown that must have startled Dr. Gold’s next patient. At this, we shared a good laugh.

  “Well, our time is almost up,” Dr. Gold said when quiet returned to the room. He stood up, walked over to Casey, and patted him vigorously on the head. “There are many people who would die to do what you’re about to do,” he told me. “You’re a lucky man.”

  He was right—I was a lucky man. The timing also seemed right. I was recently single. I was in my mid-thirties and childless. And I didn’t know how many more years Casey and I would have together. Though he’s often mistaken for a dog half his age, Casey had recently turned nine. In another year or two, a cross-country trip with him might not be possible.

  Still, as I left Dr. Gold’s office and ventured out into an unseasonably warm winter afternoon, holding Casey tightly by the leash even though he never ventures far, I couldn’t shake one nagging question: Did my dog really want to spend months in a motorhome—with me?

  Part

  ONE

  1. In which Casey hates the RV

  IF THERE exists a person in Provincetown, Massachusetts, who dislikes dogs, I have yet to meet him.

  Take a summer stroll through this quirky and scenic coastal town on the tip of Cape Cod, and you will come upon big dogs and little dogs, purebreds and mutts, rascals and pushovers. You’ll meet dogs in art galleries, dogs in restaurants, dogs in coffee shops, even dogs in banks. Visitors can take their dogs on whale watching tours or sunset cruises. In 2010, Dog Fancy magazine named Provincetown the most dog-friendly place in America.

  Though the town’s population balloons in the summer months, Provincetown mostly shuts down—and clears out—in the winter. January and February, in particular, can test the resolve of the brave folks who live here year-round, which might explain why so many of them share their life with a dog.

  “There’s nothing better to keep you company when the loneliness hits,” a longtime resident told me at Joe’s Coffee & Cafe, one of the few businesses open in the winter. Not far from him, another man’s rescue Greyhound lounged regally on a padded bench meant for humans.

  I’d moved to Provincetown from Boston in December of 2011, only two months before I was scheduled to embark on my cross-country journey. I hadn’t been in the best spirits during that transition. I wasn’t fully recovered from the implosion of two meaningful relationships in my life—a romantic one that had ended months before, and a close friendship that had very recently soured.

  The first was unquestionably my fault, and it had induced in me the kind of guilt and regret that sometimes made it difficult for me to get off the couch and walk my dog. Instead, I would read a book about walking dogs. Dog Walks Man, by John Zeaman, celebrates the simple act of dog walking—“this application of feet to dirt”—in a world consumed by technology and distraction.

  “There is a hope that a dog injects into every walk,” Zeaman writes. “More than a hope—an expectation, really—that this is going to be something wonderful.”

  I hadn’t been doing much wandering with Casey in the months after the breakup. Instead, I relied on a professional to make up for my failings. For $15 a pop, a dog walker would show up at my front door and save Casey from me. Best of all, she didn’t judge me for it. I was easy to judge, lounging around in my pajamas at 11 A.M. on a Tuesday, reading a book about walking dogs. But if the dog walker thought as little of me as I thought of myself those months, she didn’t let on.

  Before long, Casey had fallen madly in love with her. He would spin in circles and bark wildly when she called his name from the front door. He clearly associated her with one thing—walks!—which led to some confusion when I invited her to a gathering at my apartment. Unsure about why he wasn’t being taken for a walk, Casey followed her around for an hour as she tried to reach the cheese dip.

  I eventually got my act together and started walking Casey again. In the morning, he and I would stroll down one of Provincetown’s beaches. In the late afternoon, I would throw tennis balls for him at a baseball field. In between, I would park myself at Joe’s and plan our cross-country adventure.

  I should say this: planning does not come easily to me. I’m disorganized, forgetful, and prone to misplacing the piece of paper on which I’ve laid out the plan. “Oh, let’s see where the road takes us,” I’m increasingly fond of saying, a trait that I inherited from my mother, a world traveler who despises tourists and will go hundreds of miles out of her way to avoid one.

  For this trip, I sought out a middle ground—enough planning that I was sure to meet a variety of American dogs and dog lovers, but enough flexibility that I could wander where my heart and Casey’s nose desired. Yes, I had a book to write about dogs in America. But I also wanted to see America. I’d yet to visit many of our country’s most cherished treasures, including Yellowstone Park and the Great Smoky Mountains. Nor had I strolled through some of our most eccentric cities—Asheville, Savannah, and Santa Fe, to name a few. All were on the itinerary.

  Driving an RV in the cold is no fun, so I intended to make like a snowbird and head south for most of February and March. But I had dogs (and humans) to meet along the way. In New York City, I planned to attend the purebred spectacle known as the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show and visit the city’s oldest dog park.

  In D.C., I hoped to get lucky and catch a glimpse of the First Dog, Bo. After a couple stops in Virginia (including an afternoon at a dog-friendly winery), Casey and I would hike the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina with a pack of Siberian Huskies and meet a man who lives with wolfdogs.

  In Florida, I planned to attend a massive pet industry expo and a conference on animal cognition.
Casey, meanwhile, would get plenty of fun in the sun. We’d be entering a dock jumping competition and doing doga—yoga with dogs—on the beach.

  From Florida, we would drive to Louisiana and then Texas, where I’d spend a few days in Austin (one of a growing number of “no-kill” shelter communities) before heading to Marfa, a small artsy town in the high desert. Then I’d drive north toward New Mexico, where I wanted to spend a night in the best-named town in America—Truth or Consequences.

  In Colorado, I planned to visit a working cattle dog ranch. In Utah, I would tour Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, a home for many unwanted and unadoptable dogs—including several of the Pit Bulls formerly owned by Michael Vick. From there I’d head south through Arizona, where in mid-April Casey and I were scheduled to arrive at my father’s desert home. We would relax by the pool for a few days before embarking together on the second half of our journey.

  At least, that was the plan.

  ON THE eve of my departure, my friend Dylan dropped by for a visit.

  It was a cool, misty, spooky February night in Provincetown; the town was deserted. Dylan and I took Casey for a walk down Commercial Street, the main drag, and in thirty minutes we saw only two signs of life—a town drunk stumbling toward the beach, and a fox darting through a side street.

  Dylan was quieter than usual, and I finally asked him what was wrong.

  “I have this fear that I’m never going to see you or Casey again,” he said.

  “What do you mean, never see us again?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he mumbled, staring down at his shoes. “You’re driving so far, and you’re not a very good driver.”

  “I’m an excellent driver,” I protested. I must have sounded like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.

  But Dylan was right—when it comes to oversized vehicles, at least, my track record is poor. Twice I have rented a U-Haul truck to move from one apartment to another, and twice I have sideswiped a parked car as I tried to turn.

  “You have to promise me that you’ll pay attention to what you’re doing,” Dylan said, sounding genuinely concerned. Then he handed me a harmonica. “Take this. If you’re going to drive around for four months, I figure you could use a harmonica.”

  Dylan had never been inside an RV, so we spent a few minutes inspecting my rented home on wheels. (I’d picked it up with a friend the previous day at an El Monte RV rental location next to a busy highway in Linden, New Jersey.) My motorhome was twenty-five feet long and had the word “Chalet” printed on its outside, near the main side door.

  Though Dylan wasn’t a fan of the RV’s tacky linoleum floor, he did marvel at the size of the full bed. “You might actually be able to sleep in this,” he said. He opened the medium-sized refrigerator, which was paneled with faux wood that matched the motorhome’s many cabinets, and then pivoted to face the microwave and miniature gas range and oven. Next to them was a split sink, clean and gleaming.

  On one end of the kitchenette was a black panel with buttons and levers whose functions mostly eluded me. I’d been given a brief tutorial at El Monte headquarters, but the woman who’d helped me had mostly laughed off my follow-up questions. Why were there two different water tanks? When was I supposed to fill them? Why did some of the appliances run on gas, while others relied on the auxiliary battery? When was I not allowed to run the generator? Was it when the gas tank valve was open? Closed? And what was the worst that could happen if I screwed this all up? Might the RV explode?

  “You’ll get the hang of it,” she’d assured me, handing me a thick instructional manual and reminding me of the number to call for roadside assistance.

  I was hoping Dylan would assuage my fears about traveling for months in an RV with only a dog, but he was little help. “Have I told you that you’re crazy to be doing this?” he said, peeking inside the motorhome’s cramped bathroom.

  He was wise not to step inside—unless you’re standing in the shower, there’s virtually no space to turn around. If you’re tall (I’m six-two), your knees nearly touch the opposite wall when sitting on the toilet. The shower itself is on a platform, and to accommodate taller bathers, the top of the shower was cut out and replaced with a plastic dome that protrudes from the roof.

  “I really could use your support,” I told Dylan as I sat on one of the two padded polyester benches in the dinette area. “I’m scared to death about doing this alone.”

  “Oh, it’ll be okay,” he said unconvincingly. “Besides, you won’t be alone. You’ll have Casey!”

  “But what if Casey hates the RV?”

  Dylan shook his head. “He’s adaptable—he’ll do fine.”

  I told Dylan about The Difficulty of Being a Dog, a beautiful collection of vignettes by French writer Roger Grenier. In one, Grenier compares dogs to German philosopher Immanuel Kant. Dogs are like Kant, who “always want to take the same walk,” Grenier wrote. “The less it changes, the happier they are.”

  “I wonder if dogs are happiest going on new adventures,” I said, “or if they prefer structure and predictability.”

  “It probably depends on the dog,” Dylan replied.

  As we sat at the dinette, he confessed that he’d hoped my RV would be bigger—maybe one of those thirty-eight-footers with slideouts, hallways, and multiple living areas. But those motorhomes were expensive, not to mention a challenge to navigate. I needed something I was less likely to crash. Though much of the trip would be spent on the open road, I’d also be driving through some busy metropolitan areas—including Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Chicago.

  I’d considered not renting an RV at all and simply driving around the country in my Honda SUV. I’d never crashed that. But I didn’t want to spend four months in hotel rooms. There was also something appealing to me about life in an RV. One of my fondest childhood memories is of driving from San Francisco to the Grand Canyon in a motorhome with my mom and some family friends. (It was a rare departure from our usual vacations of traipsing through museums and old churches in France, which my ten-year-old self failed to appreciate.)

  One night, we’d parked the RV in a lot near the Las Vegas airport. While the grown-ups got drunk on red wine, my friend Odin and I climbed onto the roof and hurled rocks into the sky as planes roared overhead. I remember telling Odin that I wished we could drive around in that motorhome forever.

  Looking back, what probably appealed to me most about that road trip was the sense of belonging to a pack. I was an only child, desperate for connection. I didn’t mind being crammed in with five other people for a week. I loved it.

  When I initially decided to drive around the country with Casey, a friend suggested he come along. Another urged me to bring a camera crew. But while the prospect of human company was tempting, I decided to do most of the trip with only Casey.

  For these fifteen weeks, at least, my dog would be king.

  I AM not a morning person—a fact that my dog has come to grudgingly accept—and when I awoke at nine inside my Provincetown apartment on Day 1 of our journey, Casey was standing by the foot of my bed and staring intently at my bedhead.

  I gazed back at my handsome dog. Casey is built more like a streamlined Greyhound than the typical paunchy yellow Lab. He has a long, narrow, sandy snout. Fine white whiskers protrude from the darkness between his nose and rubbery lips, pricking up when he opens his mouth to yawn. His brown eyes—Casey’s darkest feature, and the only evidence of his true age—are weary and inquisitive, and they’re accessorized with dainty, humanlike eyelashes. He holds his angular skull low (emphasizing his high shoulders), and his spindly legs support a taut white torso, which fades back into a tucked-up flank.

  Before introducing Casey to the Chalet, I took him for one last walk on the beach. It was high tide, but Casey chased his tennis ball like a champ and returned it, as is his custom, some eight feet away from me.

  My dog can’t accurately be called a troublemaker, but he seems to enjoy this particular power struggle: He drops the ball a few paces away fr
om wherever I happen to be standing. I tell him to bring it closer. He barks. I tell him to stop barking. He barks again. I tell him to cut it out. Disgusted, he pushes the ball a foot toward me with a flick of his nose. I tell him to try again. He barks. I tell him to stop barking. He pushes the ball another foot. I preemptively tell him not to bark. He barks. I tell him he’s being a very bad boy. He pushes the ball another foot. And so on.

  The ball eventually arrives at my feet, but I could read an entire book on dog training in the process. I probably should have taught him to bring the ball all the way to me, but it felt somehow wrong to break him of one of his few problem behaviors—his rare acts of rebellion. Besides, I engage in his little game only when I’m feeling obstinate. Usually I just give in, walk a few paces, and pick up the ball. Or I walk in the opposite direction, forcing Casey to gather the ball and hurry up after me. Either way, Casey’s winning—because I’m walking.

  I let him win a few times on that last morning in Provincetown. Then, at about noon, I opened the RV’s side door and tried to sweet-talk Casey inside.

  “Go on,” I said. “It’ll be fun!” He paced instead around the motorhome, found a nearby bush, and peed.

  When I tried again a minute later, he galloped over to the closed rear door of my Honda, as if waiting for me to let him leap into his usual spot in back. Finally, I climbed inside the RV and called for him. Casey came to the open side door and looked at me with apprehension, but what other choice did he have? He likes to be where the humans are. He gave in and jumped in.

  Then he ate my roast beef sandwich. Casey snagged it off the driver’s seat while I was organizing my clothes in a cupboard above the bed. “Way to make yourself at home,” I said, waving the empty sandwich wrapper above my head.