It was June 1994, and it was time to drive the “fur kids,” our dogs, to our new home in Fisher’s Landing.
I was leaving behind the blood, sweat and tears in the orange grove where I lived and worked since I was 6 years old. That was the small, agricultural town of Strathmore, in the middle of California, but a job offer pulled my husband back to the Northwest, where he was born. It wasn’t easy leaving my elderly father, and my sister and her family behind, but I was ready for a change.
In May, I had already loaded the rental truck. I drove the 800 miles. My husband’s new sales job had sent him on a 10-state journey. Everyone asked how was I going to unload the truck by myself. My plan was to unload what I could, and go ask the construction workers who were building all of the new houses if I needed help. With the ramp on the truck, I was able to slide the heavier objects into the garage. I then flew to Salt Lake City to meet my husband for a visit and a trip to Yellowstone National Park before flying back north.It was a typical June day in the Central Valley. It was 103 degrees. I was getting a late start, and after packing the car and saying my goodbyes, it was time to get the “fur kids”: two older retrievers, Tara and Jabba, who get car sick, in the back seat; two cats, Laars and Hayward, in the larger carrier in the front seat, with Ruthless, another cat, on top. I had the seat belt around the carriers.
I got sedatives for the cats, but maybe I should have taken them; they howled nearly the whole way. With the air conditioning blasting to keep the dogs cool, I had plans to stop every two hours. But after doing that once, I found that was too time consuming, and it was too hot to leave any of the pets in the car.