He had three dog crates in the back of his van—two big ones side by side for Jay and Drake, and a medium for his yet-unnamed puppy girl. Hers was snugged up to theirs at a right angle, just behind the front seats. I smiled at a plastic caddy full of cleaning supplies—a spray bottle of water, another of diluted Dawn, a third of no-rinse dog shampoo, several elderly hand towels, a roll of paper towels—resting on a clean crate pad next to the puppy crate. Leave it to Tom to be prepared for a carsick baby dog. Jay hopped into his crate, wiggling his nubby tail, and Drake thumped back at him. I stuck my fingers between the bars of Drake’s crate and he pushed his velvety muzzle against them. “Brace yourself, old man,” I said. He cocked his head and lifted the base of his ears as if to say Why would I do that? “There’s coffee in the thermos.” Tom leaned over and kissed me, handing me a travel mug in the same motion. “And breakfast in the cooler.”
