You know you've been on the road too long when a sign advertising "Used Cows For Sale" looks tempting. My first question would be "Used for what?" Because let's face it: there's a huge difference between the cow Aunt Mabel drives to church every Sunday and the cow that spends every Friday night drag-racing on country roads.
Nine hours on the road today, half of them in a Noachic deluge accompanied by radio news reports about severe drought. If I had a dollar for every tractor-trailer that passed us on I-40, I'd be in the Bahamas instead of sitting in a La Quinta Inn in Jackson, Tennessee (home, in case you hadn't heard, of the Casey Jones Homeplace and Museum). Apparently, that whole 70-miles-per-hour thing is just a suggestion.
We didn't stop to check out the used cows (because, frankly, the Neon is so full of the kid's college stuff that I don't know where we'd stash a cow), nor did we stop at Dinosaur World or the Equine Podiatry Clinic. Didn't stop much at all, in fact. Just kept driving. And we'll do the same tomorrow. College is calling: cows can wait.