My mom has told you some important, and may I say fascinating, stuff about me. Well sure, about dogs in general, like how my (“all dogs,” she adds) front and back legs are built differently, how they have different jobs to do. She has stressed the importance of not cropping a dog’s tail or ears . . . and here, I might mention some other cropping I oppose . . .

 “Scooter! Pause!”

 Oh, for sure! My remarkable paws. I might remind you that (because Covid caused weeks of delay in our leaving Santa Fe) I haven’t been groomed in like forever. My paws need attention. This isn’t like a person saying, “Oh dear, my nail polish is chipping! I need a manicure.” Care for my paws is not cosmetic.

 I’ll skip most details, but did you know that my paws are similar to your hands and feet? Tiny bones, tendons, muscles, ligaments, layers of fat for warmth and cushioning, and of course, the bottom upon which is the toughest, thickest of all canine skin. You readers walk on soles of feet. We dogs have paws and walk on our toes.

 Winter is on its way, and you know how I love snow and cold weather. But did you know that the fat (“adipose tissue” for those who love exact phrases) in my paws inhibits freezing? Get this. Japanese researchers have discovered the circulatory system that keeps canine paws from freezing; even helps keep my whole body warm. I have arteries close to veins in my paw-pads that allows heat to be conducted from one blood vessel to another. Warm, oxygenated blood heats the blood that has been close to a cold surface, like an icy sidewalk, then returns that blood to my body to keep that part of me warm.

 Lucky me. I can burrow through a mound of snow, and with my heavy coat (which, admittedly, is a mess right now, and in any case collects snow clods — but the kitchen whisk knocks those right off), and thanks to my extraordinary paws, I stay warm and unharmed. By the way, you readers haven’t, but penguins and dolphins do have this unique blood system. Don’t get me started on the sweat glands in my paws, or the specialization of my various paw pads and dew claws.

Excuse me. My mom is poking me. “Get us home,” she says. “Let’s wrap up this travel story.”

 I’m a cooperator. Got it. I’ll get us home. After a night’s stay alongside the Columbia River, we struck out but not successfully. Not because we couldn’t find Starbucks but because we unexpectedly found ourselves at the Boardman marina rather than on a highway. We’re pretty sure our neighbors, the Andersons, once docked their tugboat there when not even their tug could master the mighty Columbia River winds and leave the place. We felt their pain. But I digress. We took a picture for them.

My dad managed some wrong turns, somehow locating us in a graveled lot with a high chain fence from which we could see but not reach the river and useful roads. Subaru’s navigation voice kept saying, “Make a legal U-turn,” which we did. More than once. Finally—highways 82, 84, a Starbucks, and beautiful countryside offered by highway 90. We were headed home.

Once through Snoqualmie Pass, I lifted my sleepy head off the padded edge of my car seat and began paying attention.

 My humans saw Fall colors. I smelled familiar scents. And I was right. Late on a Saturday afternoon, after six weeks and 3505.8 miles, we were close to home. And then we were.

 “Well done, Scooter Sublime. You were a wonderful traveling companion,” said my dad when he read my account. Kind words are nearly as good as crunchy treats.