Home Is Where My Dogs Are

My dogs stayed with my parents for a week so that we wouldn't have to kennel them when we went to Chicago.

For a week, my sofa was free of dog hair.  The mailman's arrival was not announced with unmitigated ferocity of barking.  Nobody burrowed under a blanket next to me only to fart (I've broken David of that habit, but haven't been as successful with Cooper).  There was no Little Mac howling to be let out in the middle of the night.  I didn't have to smell dog food with Parmesan cheese sprinkled on it (gag-o-rama).  No click-click-click of doggy toenails scratching our hardwood floors.  No growling when I open the closet door (near Mac's bed) in the morning.  No forty-pound dog stealing the covers at night.  No whining for treats.  No guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes when I don't want to go for a walk on dark, chilly evenings.

But also, for a whole week, there was nobody dancing with excitement when I walked in the front door.  No one trailed me around the house just so he could snuggle up next to me the instant I sat down.  No one wiggled with delight when I opened a cabinet door, hoping desperately I'd produce a treat for him.  No one fought the laptop for the real estate of my thighs.  No one was there to keep me company when David worked late.

I forget what good company they are, these obnoxious dogs.  I take for granted the way they abide with me, no matter how cranky I am, or how sad I'm feeling, or what I look like.  I get irritated with the barking, and tired of the dog hair, and annoyed by their (relatively simple) demands.  And then I live without them for a week and I just get lonesome for them.

So today, I'm so glad to have the dogs back where they belong.  You know, shedding on my furniture and farting under the covers.