I’ve often wondered in the three-plus weeks I’ve had Willy what he considers home. Think of it: I took a dog from a shelter in California and hauled him through three different states, each day to a new campground, in a van. We hike, we explore and, mostly, enjoy a dog’s life. (This little guy has no idea that a proper home, and a sister, await him in Connecticut.) But, Willy’s kryptonite is car travel, so his “home” is also a place of motion sickness, misery and drooling (he is improving!). Yet, to my amazement, every night, there is no happier a mutt when we settle back into the van, undo his harness and snuggle into bed. I’m not sure how he reconciles the sleepy van with the travel van, but I’m beginning to get it—the van is home and, as such, sure beats a lot of alternatives.

This really hit home ( yes, I am battering this metaphor) recently when, after a whirlwind tour of the Olympic Peninsula with a friend, we headed back to Sea-Tac airport to a Motel 6 to accommodate her 5 a.m. flight the next day. It was the only dog-friendly airport hotel I could find and I figured, as a national chain, it couldn’t be so bad. It was bad—really, really bad. After checking in, I parked while Grace went to find the room. As she was walking in, she was joined by a group and a girl said, “Hi, you’re pretty, wanna come upstairs and party with us?” That’s not leaving the light on for us—that’s scaring the shit out of us. Once in the room, we tiptoed around in shoes, peeled the bed covers off and locked every point of entry we could find. Walking Willy around the parking lot made me want to don a hazmat suit. I contemplated staying in the van, because I knew where the dirt came from and I had bear spray, but I instead slunk back inside to power up my devices and wash a few things in the sink. The next morning, instead of reveling in a shower all to myself, without having to pump quarters in, I jumped in, jumped out, packed up and left, feeling dirtier than I had when I arrived after not showering for four days.

After a few mandatory grocery and fuel stops, I sped out of Seattle with Orcas Island in my sights. As I neared the town of Anacortes, which is the jumping off point for the San Juan Islands, a lovely, brown campground sign came into view and, without even thinking, I pulled off. The next thing I knew, I was happily ensconced in a campsite on the Padilla Bay, setting up for the night. And it felt good…and safe…and clean. I lit a fire, made some dinner, wrote a little, took a walk on the beach and then Willy and I jumped into The Shroom for the night. We both wriggled with delight.

Van or no van, Willy and I find comfort in each other, and it sounds so trite, but he and I have made an unlikely home, coordinates notwithstanding.