Day One: Asked and Answered

Thu, 13 Aug 2026 14:59:37 -0500

Day One _should_ have ended
at 11:30 p.m.,
Candlewood Suites,
Pearl, Mississippi.
Instead, Candlewood had one more scene.
Been through that lobby
with Orca enough times
that the front desk knows
the usual configuration:
me,
road-tired,
with dog.
This time, her absence checked in first.
“Is your dog with you?”
“Nope, I just have my daughter this time.”
And there it was: the gap.
They hadn’t asked
whether there was _a pet_.
Hadn’t asked
whether Orcus contained
anything small,
furry,
opinionated,
and difficult to explain
on a registration form.
They asked about a dog.
The answer was no.
Between the question they asked
and the question they meant,
one little strip of unmonitored language
opened just wide enough
for four pounds of Bubbles.
He wasn’t a dog.
That was the full extent
of our legal strategy.
Then came fifteen minutes
in which a Candlewood Suites
in Pearl, Mississippi,
acquired the stress level
of _Mission: Impossible_.
No ceiling wires.
No elaborate disguises.
No exploding gum.
Just Ava and me,
four pounds of classified cargo,
and the sudden conviction
that every camera
had been installed
specifically for this moment.
Turns out,
trying to look like people
with nothing to sneak
is _exactly_ how people look
when they are sneaking something.
Every casual step
felt rehearsed.
Every glance at a camera
became a confession.
Somewhere between Orcus
and a safely closed hotel-room door,
four pounds became
the heaviest thing in Mississippi.
Fifteen minutes later:
Bubbles inside,
operation complete,
stress returning
to non-cinematic levels.
Success.
No lie told—
just one small truth
asked to carry
four extra pounds.
Orca wasn’t with us.
They never asked who was.

Made It!

Thu, 09 Jul 2026 21:28:50 -0500

Made it.
Orca and I reached the Jackson waypoint,
which is technically Pearl,
technically the luxurious Candlewood Suites,
_exactly_ the kind of place a road trip chooses
when the day has done enough.
We stopped a few times.
More than a few,
if Orca is asked
under oath.
Love’s offered a dog park,
and Orca considered it
with the full seriousness
of a woman evaluating real estate.
No.
Apparently,
that was not
a _real_ rest stop.
So we found one,
then another,
then another…
because standards matter,
and Orca is not here to pretend otherwise.
Somewhere along the way,
we sent you a video—
proof of life,
proof of dog,
proof that the road
had not yet eaten us.
Around five or six,
you apologized
for being MIA.
No need, truly.
I expected more distance.
Not because I wanted it,
but because I know
how hurt sometimes moves
through you:
quieter first,
farther back,
letting the feeling find its edges
before it comes close again.
So when you appeared,
I was just happy.
Probably too happy,
if the next few rest stops
are allowed to testify
about my texting habits.
Not too much,
I hope.
Just enough.
Enough to let the miles know
they did not get
all of me.
Enough to keep
a little thread
stretched between Atlanta,
Mississippi,
and wherever we weren't together.
Then we got here.
Before the room key,
before the luggage,
before either of us had fully agreed
to stop being in the car,
Orca popped up behind me,
tongue out,
eyes bright,
looking like the whole trip
had been arranged for this exact photo.
I had the Ray Bans on,
the backwards cap,
the tired-road face
of a man trying to look casual
about being very relieved.
She looked perfectly posable.
So I did
what any reasonable staff member
would do: I took the picture.
Sent it.
A few hours later,
the heart hit.
And that was the real arrival.
Not the room key,
the parking lot,
the little map dot…
Your little yes
crossing the dark after me.
That’s when _I_ felt it: made it.
All the way
to the first place
I could miss you from
and still feel found.

Pearl on Bougyman's Ramblings

Day One: Asked and Answered

Made It!