Why I Can Never Carpool With Johnny Cash

About 2 1/2 years ago, I got this really nice new Subaru Outback. It's a station wagon, complete with a little barrier-gate thing to keep the dogs in the way back. For 2 1/2 years, I got out of the car without dog hair on my clothes. For 2 1/2 years, I drank coffee without dog hair in while I drove to work. For 2 1/2 years, I had room for my purse, sweaters, accoutrements etc. in my car in addition to myself.

Two weeks ago, that all changed.

After I was rear-ended last Fall, Nanna grew increasingly terrified of my car (just my car, as opposed to cars in general). Thusly, she grew increasingly mopey and depressed, each day becoming more and more like a teenaged girl. But I was steadfast in my conviction to keep the front of the car fur-free.

I am steadfast in my convictions no longer.

Sure, I fastened a nice blue flannel sheet over the interior of the back two-thirds of the car to act as a fur magnet. But Ozzy is the kind of dog who protects his car by sitting upright in the driver's seat, as if to say, "No, potential car thief, you cannot steal this car, for I am a human and I am about to drive my car off to safety. Any minute now." Fur magnet, schmur magnet.

Yet, am I thrilled to be reunited with joys of a car open to dogs. Like catching glimpses of dog head and dog tongue in my rear mirrors as they hang their heads out the back windows. Or like this morning when Ozzy decided he wanted to sit up front with me. He can make himself just as small as he needs to if it means fitting on various types of furniture.