Driving Miss Bonnie

Are we there yet? Billy Ray (top) and Bonnie.

I'm in Florida. It's our official domicile, where we spend most of our time. We bought this house five years ago with the idea that, when I eased out of my job, we would sell the house in Connecticut we have owned since 1991 and move here full time.

Then the real estate bubble burst and the market dried up.

So, for the foreseeable future, we have two homes we shuttle between.

Tonight I'll pack up the car and tomorrow, bright and early, we'll be on our way up north for the summer.

It would be easier, faster and cheaper to fly but for our neurotic dachshunds, Bonnie and Billy Ray. They behave so badly on planes that we drive -- especially after that unfortunate incident four years ago.

Freaked out by the roar of the engines as the plane was thundering down the runway, Bonnie clawed her way out of the soft-sided doggie carrier in which she was stashed under the seat in front of us, and ran up the aisle. At the moment of lift-off, she jumped onto the lap of an elderly passenger, who screamed like she had been attacked by a knife-wielding towel head. An angry flight attendant threatened to have the pilot land the plane and have us arrested. I actually think we're on JetBlue's "no fly" list.

So we drive. And drive. And drive. It's a 1,342-mile route we could probably drive blindfolded. We stop at the same gas stations, the same McDonald's, the same Arby's (where the dogs split a medium Beef 'N Cheddar, hold the cheddar and the bun), the same Dunkin' Donuts, and overnight in the same fleabag Best Western.

Billy likes the car. He nods off by the time we reach the interstate and wakes up only when we stop.

But Bonnie, who is the better behaved of the two when not in a vehicle, is the very definition of hell on wheels. She whines for 121 miles until the first rest stop near Tampa, then spends the rest of the trip climbing back and forth every three or four minutes between the comfort of her bed in the back seat and the security of my wife's lap in the front, nudging the gear selector each time she shifts position. If I have to turn on the wipers, she goes bat-shit, barking, growling, lunging and drooling like Cujo, apparently under the impression a monster is trying to break through the windshield to kill us.

She barks at trucks. And motorcycles. And bridges. And toll collectors. And McDonald's drive-thru windows. When I was stopped for speeding in South Carolina, she tried to bite the cop as he handed me a ticket. He told me I needed to get my dog under control. Fat chance.

And so, off we go. Hopefully we'll arrive around around 7 p.m. Thursday in Connecticut where, Accuweather reports, it was 55 degrees this morning. Last time I experienced temperatures that cold I was in Connecticut. In July. The weather up there sucks.

But what the hell. It's home.

At least for the next few months.