We made it back home yesterday. No one was more pleased than her:

She’s such a great traveler. We don’t let her in the driver’s seat, but she splits her time napping in the back and cuddling whoever the passenger is at the time. She’ll look out the windows, the big trucks either intrigue her or freak her out, but she’s very calm about the whole thing. When we slow down, she perks up a bit. Maybe we’re there. But if you think about a long drive, there’s a lot of disappointment in that as the defining characteristic.

We hang the left and then the right into the neighborhood, though, we hit a roundabout and you start doing that crawling neighborhood speed and she knows something is up. She’s up in the windows checking everything out. You’d think she thinks she recognizes it, but she only knows these views by the way of the windshield. She’s an inside cat.

But then you hit the garage door, turn into the drive and then she knows and this patient passenger turns into a dashboard diva.

It sorta works against her. She wants out of the car — through the windshield if need be — but climbing up there hampers her exit from the Magic Moving Box.

We ran a turkey trot this weekend:

The Yankee won her age group. I won my age group.

This was the course, which I ran in the wrong shoes, because I realized about two hours into the drive, that I’d forgotten my running sneakers. So I ran it in my walking sneakers.

They are walking sneakers for a reason: they were lousy running sneakers.

On our drive back we found some cotton fields that hadn’t been harvested yet. We, of course, had to stop for pictures:

I wonder why it was still in the fields. People that passed by probably wondered the same about us, though.