4:45 a.m. Here we go again.  Cove Island Park Morning Walk.  Well, not exactly.  Sully and I are driving Susan to the airport, and then we’re off to the park.

The House will be cleared out. For an entire week!  Sully’s parents are on Honeymoon.  Sully’s Grandma is going to visit her Mother. It’s now just the Boys, batching it for a week. Nobody nagging us on excessive treat consumption. Or our roughhouse play. No need to pick up our toys.  Just the Boys, Home Alone.

We’re five miles from home on our return from the airport.  I glance to my right, and Sully doesn’t look right. He’s staring up at me, his big brown eyes signaling distress. Oh, no, Sully.  Not here. Not now.  We’re on I-95, no exit for three miles.  Sully, please, just hold on. We’re almost home.

Sully now has the dry heaves.

We’re two miles out.

Sully, good Boy that he is, jumps down into the footwell, because he’s done this before, got yelled at, and he’s learned you just can’t puke on the car seat.  Footwell is ok, but not on the seat.

I’m watching him and keeping an eye on I-95.  He’s trying to get his footing, the car is moving 65 mph, his Grandpa is racing to get home.

One mile out.

Out comes the vomit, a thick stream of a white foamy, chunky substance, which begins to ooze up and down the floor mat. Thank God this is Susan’s Car.

Sully gently lifts one foot and then the other as the vomit coats his little foot pads.

He looks up to the car seat, and then to me, preparing to jump back up onto the seat.

No! You stay right where you are.

Sully turns his attention to the vomit. Sniffs it. Paws it. And then sniffs it again.

No! Don’t you dare eat it.

He’s frozen in place, as we take the exit ramp home.

Home Alone.

Boys’ Week.

Batching it.

Right.

DK Photo: Sully on Breakwall. 46° F. 6:30 am. October 10, 2022. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.