Two weeks is about all Jimmy and I can manage away from home together before the return on our investment begins to dwindle.
I can occasionally negotiate a detour when it’s something Jimmy sees as interesting (our stop in Tennessee at the Jack Daniel Brewery last January was not planned), but there are times when I have to take the bull by the horns and initiate a change of plans that doesn't always promise something tasty for Jimmy; at least initially. He usually comes around.
“Don’t know; don’t care.”
That was Jimmy-speak for, ‘No way are we stopping at a roadside tourist trap. It’s not in our plans, much less my DNA.’ I volleyed with a sure bet when it comes to appealing to most men and their DNA.
“I think it might be a place to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I’m driving, and I think I might be hungry.”
That last statement was made gently and with diplomacy. I was hungry for a diversion, a chance to stretch my legs; and maybe a little shopping by way of souvenirs. The drive was beginning to feel like another cattle drive from sunup to sundown. Not that I've ever been part of a cattle drive, but by now you know I'm better when it comes to embellishing than I am at planning.
“Twenty minutes, tops. I promise.”
It was more like an hour, but Jimmy didn't complain. He did find some food among the Rain Barrel Artists' Shops in Islamorada. Besides, for the most part, Jimmy is really just a cute puppy dog; all bark and no bite. Yes, like most puppies, he could use a bit of obedience training and lots of room to roam;