After weeks of RV living in the Venice, Florida area, it was finally time to point the nose of the beast north toward Clermont. This was a trip of firsts: first time towing the Jeep, first time Kylie riding shotgun in the coach instead of following behind, and first time seeing just how well two humans and two deeply flawed rescue dogs could handle four hours together in a rolling house.
For the most part, it went surprisingly well. We left on schedule, the Jeep stayed attached, and Kylie settled into co-pilot mode like she’d been there all along. That is, until I glanced in the mirror and saw one of our cargo bay doors swinging wide open — naturally, it was the one holding the sewer hose. Pulled over on I-75, slammed it shut, and kept going. Apparently Florida drivers are unfazed by rogue sewer equipment; not a single honk or warning.
We made it to Orlando where the sun cranked itself up to “scorch the earth” mode. No shade at the campground, just relentless heat. The RV turned into a convection oven, the ACs gasped for mercy, and the dogs melted into puddles on the floor. We eventually moved to a site with slightly more shade, but afternoons still felt like punishment. Welcome to the Post-Arrival Heatstroke Edition.
Benny’s Poopageddon
Just when we thought we’d survived the worst, Benny — our sweet but medically complicated rescue — decided to add his own disaster to the journey. It started innocently enough on Wednesday: a single slightly runny poop. By Thursday, it was soft-serve every time he went. By Friday, we were dealing with muddy water. We could hear him get up in the night, so we’d rush him outside to spare the coach. It was working… until Saturday at 2am.
Benny got up, I took him out, and when we got back, he lay down on the carpet instead of asking for a treat — a red flag for our food-driven boy. I heard him fart (which usually just clears the room), but when he got up, there was a puddle of shit-water under him. From then on, every fart was a leak, every move left a trail. It was on his tail, his ass, the walls. Every shake of his body sent droplets flying. The coach was now a crime scene.
We packed up and hit the road back to Venice. At the first rest area, he unleashed a diarrhea water cannon. We pressed on. At the last rest area before home, I asked Kylie if we should stop again. “No, just keep going, we’re almost there,” she said. Famous last words. In a construction zone with no shoulder, Benny tried to get to the door. Kylie realized the mistake and yelled, “He’s gonna explode!” Traffic was heavy, cones lined the road, and the only pull-off was millimeters from both traffic and barrels. I stopped. Kylie got him out, and there he was: terrified, bunny-hopping in circles, spraying rivers of poo while she tried not to step in it.
Back in the coach, he kept leaking. We set up camp looking like vagrants, carpets spread outside for washing. The emergency vet diagnosed pancreatitis. For the next two days, we lined the couch with training pads and took shifts. The outdoor shower became Benny’s bidet. At one point, I wrestled him alone, trying to wash him off, only for him to unleash another flood immediately after. It was a shitty wrestling match, and I lost.
Monday brought a glimmer of hope — a plop and a raisin-sized turd instead of a flood. By Tuesday morning, only a tiny residue on his blanket. His sore bung hole will take a while to recover, but Benny survived. Kylie survived. I survived… barely. But I’m convinced I now have PTSD: Post Traumatic Shit Disdain.
There was shit everywhere — walls, floors, shower. We ran out of clean towels and blankets. And no, I haven’t gotten over my dislike of dog crap. In fact, it’s worse.