Mercifully, dogs can’t distinguish between a one hour journey and three. They have nose memory instead. Sea belch evokes sand which evokes wind sprints and cool foam sluicing through their toes. In the deep circadian rhythm involving cars, something wonderful starts to happen around Carpenteria. That the car isn’t actually moving, is literally parked on the freeway…well, that’s a people problem.
There’s an old joke. A bunch of stray dogs are hanging around in Tijuana. One of them is from suburban San Diego. He comes down on the weekend and brags to the other dogs his owners feed him filet mignon scraps from the table. He sleeps in bed with them on sheets of Egyptian cotton.
“If you have it so good up there,” they ask the La Jolla dog, “then what are you doing down here with us in Tijuana?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I come to Tijuana to bark.”
So why are Mrs. UpintheValley and I leaving 75 miles of Los Angeles beaches, adding to the collective agony of the 101…to bring the dogs to Montecito?
So they can run off-leash as God intended. We bring them to bougie, white Santa Barbara so they can bark. Santa Barbara is a high-trust city. It can afford to be generous in leash laws. Los Angeles is not, therefore cannot.
There’s also ample free parking and that sweet walkable dog-friendly Funk Zone.
One of the 23 Lies We Tell About LA™: it’s a great beach town.