The car door opens. That is the whole manifesto, really. But I have more to say.
I’m Jasper, and I need to properly document my feelings about car rides because they are significant and deserve the full treatment.
The Sound That Changes Everything
There are sounds in my life that mean different things. The treat bag crinkling means something. The leash coming off the hook means something. The word “walk” — when said at a certain volume and with a certain energy — means something.
But the car door opening? That’s in a category by itself.
The car door opening means we’re going somewhere. And going somewhere is the best possible thing that can happen at any given moment. Not because wherever we’re going is always amazing (though it usually is). But because the car ride itself is an event. A happening. The beginning of something.
I am in the car before anyone has finished the question of whether I’d like to come.
The Window Philosophy
There are dogs who sit calmly in the backseat and watch the world go by through the glass. I respect those dogs. I am not those dogs.
I have the window down if it’s possible. Nose out. Ears back in the wind. Eyes half-closed against the rushing air. This is the correct way to experience a car ride.
The information coming through that open window is extraordinary. Every neighborhood we pass through has its own smell profile. Industrial areas smell like metal and heat. Suburban neighborhoods smell like grass and exhaust and someone’s barbecue. Forest roads smell like pine and damp earth and the possibility of something really interesting just off the road.
It’s like reading a book about every place we pass through. A book that only my nose can access.
The Destination Question
People sometimes ask if dogs understand where they’re going on car rides. Like, do I know when we’re heading to the vet versus the trail versus the grandparents’ house?
Yes. Absolutely yes.
I don’t know how I know. Some combination of the route, the duration, my humans’ energy, the smells getting closer to a familiar destination. But I definitely know. My excitement level varies based on where we’re going.
The vet: I know. I maintain dignity until we get inside, and then I become a problem.
Grandparents’ house: I know way before we get there. Augie is there. I can barely contain it.
Trail parking lot: I know when we turn in. The anticipation in the last half mile is almost unbearable.
What Car Rides Mean to Me
Car rides are, at their heart, about trust.
I get in and go. I don’t know the destination with certainty. I don’t know how long we’ll be. I don’t control any part of the route. I’m fully in the passenger seat in every sense.
And I’m fine with that. Because my humans haven’t taken me somewhere I didn’t eventually enjoy. The trust is earned.
Every time the car door opens, I make the choice to go. And I have never once regretted it.
That’s the manifesto. The car door opens. I get in. Let’s go. 🚗