As my family prepared for this three-week trip in a motor home,

I begin to see the differences in our priorities. When it comes to

packing, every member of my family shows what they consider important.

The first thing my 6-year-old daughter packed was a coconut

bra and six Barbies, two without heads. My 8-year-old focuses on hair

care. Not that she ever brushes it without a battle. Yet, the first thing on her

agenda are three barrettes, two scrunchies and a pair of socks she wears tied

together for a headband.

My husband prepares for the trip by washing the RV. Why anyone

wants to wash the rig before heading to the dustiest states of the union, I

cannot fathom. It is a “guy” thing. My

theory has always been if it’s gonna get dirtier, don’t bother washing it.

Men think differently; they pay special attention to the tires, wheels and

engines. This violates another of my life rules: If no one can see it or eat off

it, it doesn’t need washing. Ever.

Not that I have ever packed anything useless. I packed a

“non-essential.” I packed the cat. Let me back

up here … every trip I have ever taken with my ever-lovin’ husband I

have dragged along 110 pounds of slobbering, smelly, flea-packing black

lab. Every meal I have ever eaten on the road has been accompanied by a

gallon of dog drool down my left shoulder. Stepping on a large black

behemoth that takes up the whole RV hallway when he is fully relaxed has

preceded every midnight bathroom break. After 14 years, we no longer have

the pleasure of his cold nose on long drives. Our only pet is our cat George.

George is your normal everyday domestic shorthair. Although

you would never know it by the amount he sheds. George is the last

surviving member of our gaggles of pets that once numbered three cats and a

dog. Being the last member, George lives the life of Riley. All the mice,

moles and cat chow he can eat. Petting on demand and a sunny spot by a

window. Life was good. Then everything changed.

Suddenly about a month ago, George started developing

weird bumps on his chin. I figured it was the usual spring flea “thing” and

dowsed him in a toxic mix of pesticides. But the bumps persisted. Off to the vet

we go. One hundred forty dollars later, I find out that my cat has

pimples because he is under stress. How any

animal that sleeps 20 hours a day can feel stress, I cannot fathom. But after

selling my first born to pay for the honor of shoving three pills a day down

his throat, I had to face facts that the new cat next-door had invaded his

territory and caused George’s delicate condition.

There was no way, with an almost month-long trip ahead that I

could leave the little hairball at home with occasional visits by a neighbor.

The cat had to come on the trip. There was just one problem.

George and my ever-lovin’ husband have had a long-running

battle of wills. It all started with the Daddy’s chair at the dinner table. George

begs to disagree. It is not daddy’s chair; it is

his chair. My ever lovin’ can take two steps into the kitchen and

two steps back and George will be in his chair sound asleep like he has

been there for days. The battle rages daily with no end in site. We can rotate

positions at the table and the fight is the same. George just knows which

chair to covet.

We are now five days into this trip. We have seen some of the most

beautiful sites imaginable and the battle between George and my ever lovin’

is at a fevered pitch. Most of the time George is fine just lying in his lap

as the miles fly by. Until we are on a steep windy pass, then the show gets

exciting. George picks these times to fully extend his claws into my

husband’s delicate section for added traction. This has a tendency to shift

my husband’s focus from the dangerous road conditions to protection of

those things he holds most near and dear. It is a miracle I am alive to write

this column.

We have 2,000 miles to go to before we reach our turning point

and head for home. Luckily, for the next few days we are on the flats. I

have managed to unclench my teeth and fists. My long suffering

ever-lovin’ husband has not killed the cat. I consider the trip a success already.

Next time remind me to pack tranquilizers … that will be

my priority.

Kate Russell is lost in the back roads of America. You can

reach her if she makes it back alive at her e-mail

address Katemo1@.msn.com.