For ten years, my PT Cruiser and I traveled together in perfect harmony. While cruising the Heartland’s highways and byways one weekend, a discernable noise like “puree” on the food processor assaulted my ears. We limped home safely. Monday morning PT visited our mechanic for a diagnosis. Sadly, the prognosis was jarring. Chiefly, classic PT had what sounded like a rotary problem, a scary “shoulder” injury. The mechanic ticked off issues that melded like watercolors in my mind. What stood out was PT’s estimated cost of resuscitation: $1200+. Upon reflection, my gleaming silver PT had amassed 99,990 miles in ten blissful years together. His oil had been changed faithfully every three months, and his oil filter as needed. He had sped merrily along with sets of new shoes whenever the mechanic recommended replacement tires. His fluids were replenished regularly. He was bathed often, and then polished to a pristine shine.
After months of test-driving, I ventured to cut a deal. Bidding adieu to PT on the dealer’s lot broke my heart, but PT would have faced further surgery within a year. Beloved PT would have to go gentle into that good night.
Heading home in our new red Rogue, I stopped by an elderly uncle’s house to give him a glimpse.
“Why-a you no-a buy-a Murano?” he asked. “You buy-a the cheap-a car!”
I had paid in full for our Rogue, which was not, in my opinion, “cheap”. Rogue “Rougie” and I are happy together.
Ciao for now.