It had been a long summer.

I was scrounging about — looking for money as usual. We needed it. Somehow, three part-time jobs never quite add up to a full job. Go figure. Days clung like the last drop of mayo in the round plastic serated crevice of an industrial sized can. Just like that barely visible white sludge drop clinging heavy enough to make a grown man scream. Like the owner of a deli — screaming his lungs out at the site of it.

Sandwiches followed me. A certain machinist’s touch is needed on the assembly line. Such were the orders: toast the bread, add the tomatoes, the sprouts…wait, does the Deli Deluxe get mayo? Here lies a mangled sandwich — bloated with too much turkey; bread crumbling to bits as if chewed in half with molars; wrapped by a second-grader. Now get in the car and drive to…where?

Time bungled on until we loaded up my temperamental pick-up truck — stacking furniture; wedging boxes; tying tarps and bungee cords. We had other knick knacks crammed into a VW beetle and a station wagon; it was a 21st century caravan that turned into Oregon trail.

A few miles down the road, the tarp unhooked. It started to rain. We pulled over to adjust the cords and the rain let up a bit, so I decided to cut slits in the tarp to decrease wind resistance. But, pieces of the tarp were shredded off in a confetti trail behind us by the time we reached the big hills of Kentucky and Tennessee.

I looked past the unmasked creaking mass of mattress, chairs, and boxes to the rising trail of white smoke. We shook and banged up and down past semis abandoned on emergency ramps. The twice repaired engine groaned in protest, but didn’t let up and I kept the accelerator to the floor.

Florida felt like a new country: Spain to be exact. Gorgeous green fought its way out of the sandy earth — defying the relentless temperature and sucking down water from the wet, boggy air.

Strong inertia from the implausible exodus snowballed. Resume clutched in my wet fist, shirt and tie, I trudged around town. I unloaded strangers’ toys. We got married.

When the impossible rolls possible, you get hooked. Scenarios — once outlandish — push their way to the forefront. Up late at night, I browsed through Petfinder. Now with one dog, I already needed another. So, the next morning, I just headed out — a cute little Rhodesian puppy was waiting — first come, first serve — in Clearwater — only three hours away. That is, if you drive in the right direction.

My trusty old truck broke down near a service station on the highway. A quick-witted, old mechanic hooked me up with a new clutch for the fan — temporary fix to keep moving. I drove faster than ever, ending up in Clearwater an hour after opening. I threw the truck in park and sprinted through the Petsmart lobby.

“I’ll take him.” I panted and pointed to the tiny brown runt at the bottom of a dogpile. The round woman from the phone handed me a clipboard with a thin stack of papers.

Just as I placed the pen to the paper, a family walked up behind me. The mother spoke:

“We’re here about the Rhodesian…”

“I’m sorry, he’s been adopted,” she said. She smirked at me and then back at the family. They walked off dejectedly.

My chest was still heaving from the frenzied excitement and I hurried through the paperwork. There was a slot for “Pet’s Name.” I saw the mechanic’s face and the tattered named patch on his greasy overalls.

Leroy, I wrote.