My dog is on vacation. The house we moved him away from a month ago is the Ritz Carleton for dogs: miles of uninterrupted land to roam, ponds to jump in when he’s hot, neighbors who feed him, various small animals to
eat chase. The house we moved him into freaks him out. He can dash through it – end to end – before he is even properly panting. Instead of feeding him, the neighbors drive terrifying cars at ludicrous speeds – an event that causes him to sprint into any nearby bush and cower. The worst part of his new residence, by far, is the fence. It is the new bane of his existence. Its unwavering power to confine him to his grassy cell sent him into a depressed slumber that no amount of peppy talking could raise him from for three days. His world has been reduced, and he’s suddenly too big for his surroundings. He’s like Chris Farley wearing a coat.
So, when Mike had to make a trip back to Des Moines, he took Arrow with him. For two days now Arrow has been terrorizing the chicken owners in our former neighborhood, gathering cockleburs in his fur, and destroying tidy landscaping.
I, however, have been calling him to come eat his food, returning home to an annoyingly clean house, and patting the empty space next to me on the couch in vain. I think I hate dog vacations.
Oh, and I miss my husband too.