First stop had been to the see Karrera at the cafe. She had pointed him to QuarterMaster Surplus where he picked up a canvas messenger bag he thought the dog would fit into. The bag smelled a bit like the store. Wearing it back to the motel should air it out. As he purchased the bag his brain tried to help him understand he was doing little to find Tug’s owner and that naming the dog was ownership and if you were trying to figure out how to travel with the dog then the dog was, de facto, his. He wanted to not want the dog. Somewhere inside him was an angry mother telling him dogs were dirty and stupid and flea ridden and more responsibility than he could handle. Another voice just wanted to be left alone and not invest his heart in another thing he could lose–wouldn’t it be easier to take the dog to the pound and then a nap? However, the loudest call was to get back to the dog and put him in the bag and see if he’d go for a ride.
That would be cool.
Coolness was hard to deny.
Tug was cool and loaded into the bag easily. It was hard for him to pop his head out to see so the man cut a “U” into the side of the bag and Tug was happy to stick his head out under from under the flap to see where things were going.
And it smelled better outside the bag.