House Guest

I travel. I travel a lot.

Old Man often wonders how many miles I've logged under his watch. My guess? A lot.

When I leave town, I pack the essentials:

- 2 bottles of water,

- organic kibble,
- a vintage set of dinner bowls,
- a fistful of plastic bags,
- 1 or 2 varieties of "Trixxie treats,"
- a towel for my beach visits,
- my very favorite blanket, and

- the wisdom of 11 years of canine experience.

Every home I visit has a unique set of rules that I am happy to observe. I am, after all, an obliging house guest. You will never discover a random puddle or gnawed corner executed on my watch. I will not antagonize your beloved family pet or small children. Nor would I {{{shudder}}} leap on the table to claim the holiday bird while your turned back is tending to the stuffing and sweet potatoes.

In fact, observing the rules and packing my manners is the key to my repeat invitations --- no matter how much of a crowd pleaser one thinks they may be. I understand the importance of leaving things as you found them (plus or minus a few less food crumbs on your kitchen floor that I'm happy to help you tackle). I know how hard you've worked to polish your floors and how limited your enthusiasm would be upon discovering my fancy-prance marks in your high-gloss, high-traffic areas. No problem. I'll just don my sneaker booties. It's all good.

I only ask that, in return, I can steal a lap snuggle while you're dozing on the sofa in front of "Modern Family" reruns. Or, if Old Man takes Aunt Lanny someplace where dogs aren't allowed and I have to hang back for a stretch, I hope you won't mind a spin around the yard or a bedtime visitor who's happy to linger as long as you're inclined, while we telepath travel stories to one another until the next time I return.