Earlier today I was staring out the window, barking at cars going by, and thinking that life here in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley is pretty darn nice. And I’m pretty darn lucky to be here.

You see, last December we were homeless. On the run from The Feds. The Staties. And everyone in between.

What a difference a year can make.

Now I’m settled in, met a few feral cats (that didn’t end well for me), and folks here are getting used to my sassy little NJ dog vibes. And they all ask how we ended up here.

The story isn’t a pretty one, but if you have a minute or two I’ll explain what happened.

Remember those crazy spy drones that were terrorizing New Jersey back towards the end of 2024? We saw a few, but pretty much ignored them. Caring about them was way above our pay grade.

Until they invaded Round Valley, the park my mom worked at. When she heard they were flying over the reservoir (no doubt up to something nefarious), she decided she had to step up and do something about it.

My dad, who’s appeared on more than his share of local “Most Wanted” posters, was the voice of reason and knew this was a bad idea. “Um, Deb, the governor announced the drones are harmless and anyone who messes with them will get arrested. Your park boss said the same thing. Maybe you should listen to her and just clean up pinecones instead.”

My mom grabbed her cast iron skillet menacingly. My dad thought it was a good time to go to the gym.

I think you can see where this went. 

She decided to take things into her own hands – future visits from those Men in Black be damned. Armed with her giant slingshot (by “giant” I mean it looked like it was made by Orcs), she hiked into the woods one night, ready to do battle with those over-hyped, diabolical drones.

The outcome? Deb 1. Drones 0. Or so she thought.

Her park police pal Brian watched the de-winged drone as it fell out the sky, fizzling like a wet bottle rocket on July 5th. “Wow. I thought you were smarter than that.” He turned towards her, pulled out his ticket book and continued, “I’m going to close my eyes, count to twenty, and give you a head start.”

My mom grabbed her slingshot and spent the first seven seconds running in circles like a brain damaged squirrel in the middle of a busy road. Then she took off. Fast. For a senior.

The next thing we knew, boxes were packed, our home was sold, she cut her hair, dyed it brunette, and we were rocking down the highway, heading out of state.

Yeah, I know. It sort of sounds like a Doobie Brothers song.

“Oh no, Polly,” you might be thinking, “That’s terrible! Whatever did you do? Wherever did you go?”

We spent a few months laying low and off the grid. I can’t tell you exactly where we went because I don’t want to compromise our location, in case “someone” does something stupid again and we need it.

We also stayed out of trouble. Mostly. Except for my dad. That’s a story for next time . . .

So, what does this mean for you?

Pretty much nothing, other than I hope I answered some pressing questions for you. Assuming you had pressing questions.

Not every post I write has to impart some valuable nugget of Little Dog Wisdom. Sometimes I write just to write. And to hopefully give my readers a smile or small laugh.

My dad thinks it’s more productive and less annoying than barking at cars.

In the meantime, now that we’re yesterday’s news and moved out of that bunker we were hiding in, I’m going to make sure we don’t do anything to mess this up.

Well, anything else to mess this up.

Want to know how my dad almost ruined it for us? Just keep reading.

The Big Move: Part 2, Showdown at the Corral