BY CAROL J. GARVIN

We dog owners only have three alternatives when we decide to take a vacation: board the dogs in a commercial kennel, pay someone to come into our home and dog sit, or take all the critters with you. If your budget is anything like ours, the first two choices aren’t viable options. Even if your budget isn’t like ours, you don’t want to waste hard earned cash paying someone else to tend to your beasties’ very basic needs, now do you? No, I didn’t think so. Neither do we.

Our canine companions aren’t terribly demanding… at least, not at home. They go in and out periodically, and then lay about under the desk or snooze in the rays of sun slanting through the patio doors the rest of the time. Oh, they beg for food occasionally, but kibble-time comes around just once a day so, unlike my husband, they don’t hover in the kitchen with high expectations morning, noon and night.

So when we began to organize for our first camping trip of the new season we unhesitatingly set out crates, dog food and leashes alongside our sleeping bags, groceries and folding chairs.

“Are you taking the dogs?” asks our neighbour, glancing at the shiny new RV in our driveway.

“Of course,” I reply. “They’ve always gone with us. They’re part of the family.”

“You don’t find it a bit cramped?”

“Nope. We’ve been RVing for almost fifty years and have everything down to a science. All the essentials have their place. These units are surprisingly roomy.”

The neighbour throws a skeptical look at our 10’2” Northern Lite basement model camper and wanders back to his own yard, shaking his head. Hubby and I proceed to pack the week’s essentials into their assigned nooks and crannies.

The only problem with a new recreational vehicle is that cupboards are never in quite the same locations. When preparing for each maiden voyage it takes awhile to decide what should go where. But we’ve lived in a lot of these home-away-from-homes – eight of them now, to be exact – and eventually everything is stowed away in an appropriate slot. Everything, that is, except the dog crates.

You see, for most of our camping years, luxuriating in spacious trailers, motorhomes and fifth-wheels, our four-footed horde has been comprised of small-to-middling sized Shelties. It’s only now that my hubby is retired and we’ve downsized to a camper that we’ve added a Labrador Retriever.

“It’ll be okay,” I say, mentally measuring the larger crate against the obviously smaller doorway. “We can collapse it outside and then put it together again inside.”

Hubby throws me a withering glance. “And put it where? It would take up half the available floor space. I suggest we leave the crates home this time. Tynan isn’t a puppy anymore… he doesn’t really need his.”

Is there ever a time when a Labrador isn’t a puppy? Our vet once joked that it’s three or four years before a Labrador’s brain kicks in. Others have suggested it never does. Tynan is barely two, but he’s a sweetheart, and the Sheltie is a dignified twelve now. Hubby is right. We don’t need the crates. I naively lug them back into the house.

Zero hour approaches and we do the routine last minute check. Everything’s loaded. “You’re sure we have the remote control for the electric jacks? Instruction manuals for the new appliances? A couple DVDs for the television?” (Our first rig to come equipped with a TV.) Everything is battened down. Dogs are in the truck. It’s time to leave.

With a smile and wave to the neighbour, we climb into our 2003 Dodge one-ton dually and head for the hills… well, for the nearest service station to fuel up first. At $1.34 per litre, diesel is no longer the bargain fuel it used to be. I haven’t figured out why it’s more expensive than regular gas… but heading out on holiday is not the time to work up my blood pressure.

With a full tank we’re soon cruising down the highway. Being retired has advantages, one of which is that we can pick our departure day and time to avoid heavy traffic. Highway #1 east is an easy drive today. At 1:15 p.m. on this April Tuesday the only annoyance is the growling of my stomach.

“Can we stop soon for lunch?” I beg.

“We’ve only been on the road a half hour. How about we eat on the go? Otherwise it’ll be dark before we get there. There’s a rest stop at Hunter Creek; I can walk the dogs while you make sandwiches or whatever you want, if that’s okay with you.”

Anything that means food will soon be forthcoming suits me. I missed breakfast. We stop and I jump out and scramble up the stairs into the camper while Hubby leashes up the dogs. As I reach for the sandwich cold cuts in the fridge my hand brushes against the package of wieners. Those wieners are still frozen and since they’re meant for tonight’s quick campfire dinner I pull them out and drop the package in the sink to thaw. At least I hope they will thaw. It’s mighty cold in here.

Have I mentioned yet that there is snow on the ground? There was still a fair bit in our yard, leftover from a recent spring storm, but since we live in what TV meteorologists refer to as a “higher elevation,” I assumed there wouldn’t be any down in the Fraser Valley. There wasn’t, but now that we’ve started into the mountains it has returned.

Bad weather has never deterred our trips. When the children were young we regularly packed boots, warm jackets and rain gear for a week of Spring Break camping at Honeymoon Bay on southwestern Vancouver Island. One early-May we spent a bone-chilling long weekend in a tent trailer in the mountains of Waterton Lakes National Park. We’re hardy souls. Or insane.

I tuck a can of pop into each gaping pocket of my sweater, gather up the wrapped sandwiches and an afternoon’s worth of snacks and hurry back to the truck. Hubby is just returning with the dogs. The smell of damp dogs permeates our small space. It’s as familiar as ducking wet clothing in the RV when it hangs from every available protrusion... something else very common to off-season camping. I unwrap a sandwich and hand over one half as we drive along in companionable silence.

The hours slip away as a Kenny Rogers CD repeats for the umpteenth time while I squint my way through another crossword puzzle. “What’s an eight letter word for ‘deliberate’?”

“Beats me.” He doesn’t like crosswords. “We’ve made good time,” he adds. “We’re almost there.” Sure enough, around the next curve the Johnstone Creek Provincial Park sign appears. Well, actually, just the brown signpost is there, and as we pull off the highway we are blocked by a gate. “Since when has there been a gate here?” he asks nobody in particular since I’m sure he realizes I don’t have the answer.

As novice blunders go, this is a biggy – heading for a specific destination without checking its availability first. “It’s been a few years since we’ve come this way,” I murmur in my defense as I dig through our supply of maps to find the campsite directory.

“I suppose we could go on to Kettle River. It’s not far.”

I’ve found the appropriate page. “I’m afraid it’s gated in the off-season now, too. How about Conkle Lake? It’s open year round.”

“I don’t know that I want to take a new rig that far on a gravel road.” He sighs. “This was meant to be such an uncomplicated test run.”

“We could go back to Osoyoos. The Haynes Point Campground opened at the end of March. After mid-May it’s only available by reservation, but until then it’s first come first served, and surely in mid-April we should be able to find a spot.”

After the exhaustive decision-making the half-hour drive back to Osoyoos seems much longer, but maybe it’s because I’m hungry again.

There are only a handful of other rigs at Haynes Point, so it doesn’t take long to choose a campsite. Once we’ve parked I let the dogs out of the truck and we head for the camper to start supper, but only the Sheltie and I make it as far as the door. The Lab discovers the lake and detours for a quick dip. Great! Wet dog smell in the camper tonight. As Hubby lowers jacks and organizes outside, I regroup the dogs and take them in to begin supper preparations.

I slice open the package of wieners. Two pair of soulful eyes immediately appear beside of me. “You guys should probably be fed first. It’s well past your mealtime.” I stand in the middle of the floor and try to remember where the bucket of dog food and metal dog bowls have been stored. I know where they would be in our previous rig but there is no comparable cupboard door at the end of the dinette bench in this one. Hmmmmmmmm. . . .

I look in the most likely places first and then open the back door to check with Hubby… and hang on frantically as the wind tries to grab it away from me. “Bob?” I yell. “Where are the dog food and bowls?”

“What?” His voice is whipped away.

I step down, carefully pushing the door closed behind me, and hunt him down at the fire-pit where he is organizing a pile of kindling. “The dog food and bowls…?” I repeat.

“They’re in that back compartment,” he points. “I wasn’t sure where you wanted them, so for now they’re in with the barbecue.”

Wrapping my sweater tight against the breeze, I hurry to the compartment, but it’s locked. I return to Hubby with hand extended and he reaches into his pocket for the keys.

“You know,” he says, “I’m thinking if you want to eat soon we might be better to use the barbecue. With this wind it could take a while to get a good bed of coals.”

“At least there’s no snow here, but I’m still freezing. Let’s eat inside tonight. I can boil the wieners and we’ll roast leftovers another night.” I grab the keys and go for the dog food. Then, with the bowls and bucket precariously gripped in one hand, I maneuver the camper door open and manage to get inside and close the door again without losing it to the wind.

I mix cups of kibble with warm water in the bowls and then glance down to decide where each dog will eat. It is then that I notice the shredded bits of plastic on the floor. “What’s this?” I ask, already fearing the worst. “You didn’t….? You wouldn’t…!” Neither dog is acknowledging the situation. Both gazes are riveted on the bowls I’m holding, eyes bright, tails wagging in anticipation. I search the counter, check in the sink, examine the floor, peer under the dinette. Remnants of plastic are all that remain of eight wieners. “You guys!!” I wail.

“What’s the matter?” asks Hubby as he blows in.

“The dogs – they’ve devoured the wieners.”

“That’s impossible.” He sees my expression. “How’d it happen?”

“I don’t know, but Sonnet’s too short to reach the countertop, so I think we can guess who’s the culprit. I don’t understand it; he never steals food at home.”

“You use wieners to make his dog show treats, right? Well, he’s smart, but he can’t be expected to differentiate between which ones he can have and which ones he can’t.” I choose to ignore the logic.

We decide on canned pork and beans after discovering everything else in the fridge is frozen. My novice blunder #2: assuming appliances work the same as in the previous rig, and not noticing this fridge has a temperature dial that should have been turned down.

Afterwards we leash up the dogs and take them for a stroll. Any thought of spending the rest of the evening around a campfire, however, vanishes moments after we leave the camper. Haynes Point Provincial Campground is a picturesque spot, situated on a peninsula that juts into the middle of Osoyoos Lake. Summertime temperatures in the area are often the hottest in Canada and at 40°C a breeze off the lake is more than welcome. Not so at tonight’s 4°. Even bundled into the ski jackets that we automatically pack for these off-season jaunts, the chill penetrates uncomfortably.

We decide to retreat inside and read. When we realize that neither of us has remembered to bring the stack of magazines and novels piled prominently on the coffee table at home, we elect to try out the new LCD television instead.

Neither of us is an electronic wizard, and with the DVD player combined in the kitchen’s radio, an elusive toggle switch to locate in the bedroom cupboard underneath the TV, and a remote control to hunt down because nothing will operate without it, our patience is tested. But with instruction book in hand we eventually succeed, and pile cushions on the queen-sized bed to settle in for the movie.

Not about to give up his usual television-viewing position on our feet, Tynan suddenly makes the four-foot leap onto the bed.

“Get off!” we both shriek, and he jumps down with obvious confusion.

“He wouldn’t dream of doing that at home,” I say. “He knows he’s not allowed on the furniture.”

“True,” says Hubby, “but then maybe he sees this as a split-level home and up here is the bedroom, not just a bed. He’s allowed in the bedroom at home. How is he supposed to know the difference?”

“I don’t know, but you’d better stop making excuses for him and teach him the rules of our camper lifestyle pretty fast or next trip I’m bringing his crate!” It’s easy to lay the responsibility on him since we consider the Lab to be his and the Shelties mine.

Somehow, through all of our motoring years none of our Shelties has contravened “the rules” that automatically transfer from home to RV. But then again, none of them is of a size that allows them to get into the kind of innocent mischief that comes naturally to a Labrador Retriever. Their crates are smaller, too.

Despite the minor catastrophes, our week was a good inaugural run. After seven previous “firsts” in our 49 years of RVing, we never expected that scratching our “seven year itch” with another new rig, and taking it on its first outing of the season would result in any surprises. Never say never! But we love our new camper – and, yes, we’ll be taking the dogs again next time. I haven’t decided yet about the crates.