I LOOK BACK ON the weeks leading up to full-time RV living through a thick fog, vaguely remembering a cycle of donating, cleaning, packing, and purging, occasionally interrupted by an intense staring contest I would start with my dog, Charlie. Valiantly pursuing the impractical goal of communicating to him that his life was about to change forever, I would scoop him up like a swaddled baby, and find my husband, Drew, to seek assurance.
“Is Charlie going to be okay?” I would ask. Of course, Drew could provide no concrete answer at the time, making me now wish I could somehow send reassurance to
