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![\"DSC09201.jpg\"](\"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/DSC09201.jpg\")
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Not of myself. But of Hope, who is in her crate in the back seat.<\/p>\n
This is my car in the bowels of the Block Island ferry, getting ready for our journey back to the mainland. They do not allow people (unless you are Christopher Walken) to sit in their cars during the hour-long boat ride. You have to go up into the ferry proper. So I had to leave her there. She crouched in her cage, like a little Cornish hen, with big alarmed miserable eyes, and endured her fate with no complaint.<\/p>\n
The ferry ride out to Block Island was rough, the boat climbing the waves and plunging down into the holes in between. It was gloriously fun but it had to be a shrieking horror for Hope, who had no idea what her life had come to. The ferry ride back to the mainland was a breeze, no big waves, nothing, but still: it’s LOUD down there with the cars, much louder than up above.<\/p>\n
So I look at this benign picture and I feel despair.<\/p>\n
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Not of myself. But of Hope, who is in her crate in the back seat. This is my car in the bowels of the Block Island ferry, getting ready for our journey back to the mainland. They do not allow … Continue reading