I have a hard time letting go of things. No, really. I know it's hard for some of you to believe. But it's true. I tend to do a bit of the Dwelling. Upon subjects ranging from what to have for breakfast (Is it really safe to have grits, again? Answer: Yes. Of course.) to more serious things like what to put in a glass of scotch (Drambuie, Amaretto ... or just rocks? Answer: Just the ice, Daddy. This isn't the 60s.) But one of my favorite things to dwell on is travel, especially of the air variety. I've written before about this topic, right before a trip to the same place I'm going this weekend, in fact, so I'm sorry to be redundant. But this time, I've got a new source for my Fret: Honey.

It's hard to believe, but this will mark the first time I've been away from Honey for longer than a day since I brought her home back in April. Now, she won't be totally alone. C is staying behind, so she'll be able to take care of her most of the time. And I'm sure she'll do an excellent job. But just in case, it can't hurt for me to type up a page full of instructions for her, can it? And just give her some tips about things. You know, like how much food to give her. And what times we go for walks. And when and where she might poop. Or the more practical stuff ... like how she likes her pillow fluffed. Or how she appreciates her kong served with a side of caviar. And how she usually enjoys hugs and lots of belly-rubbing when she wakes up from naps.

See, the thing is ... C just doesn't have my penchant for pampering Honey silly. She takes a slightly different approach. She treats Honey kind of like ... a dog. And I'm not sure how I feel about it, honestly. Like this morning. As a good "warm-up," I decided to linger in bed and let C take Honey out for her morning two pees and a poo. This happens every morning at 6:30. Pee in spot one. Pee in spot two. Poop in random location to be decided. You could set your watch to it. C has done this job in the past. She knows the routine. In fact, I think she invented it. But I've taken the job over more and more for two reasons: C likes to hit snooze, and I suffer from a slight case of OCD. But I've grown to kind of like the morning trek outside. And what I've learned is that Honey needs support when she does her business. She needs encouragement and congratulations. But this morning C decided to just change all of that up, and to just stand at the back door while Honey went out to do her stuff. I heard the door open and close ... a little too quickly. So I had to get up and investigate.

"That was quick."

"Yeah, I just stood at the back door and let her go out by herself."

"What?!"

"Yeah."

"Did she poop?"

"No. She just peed."

"Well, of course she just peed! But she needs to poop. I mean, there is poop in her butt ready to come out. She just doesn't realize it."

"I thought it would be a good experiment."

Head-shaking. Sighing. Exasperation.

Needless to say, I took her out to poo.

I'm not sure if it was entirely clear or not, but there was OCD, and a touch of the morning grogginess to blame for this little tirade. I weren't always so level-headed, folks.

I admit it: I'm guilty of a little pampering. And so I guess my biggest worry about leaving for a few days is that Honey will just be too sad without me around and will decide she can't take it any longer and propel herself through a second-story window. I just see her waking up each morning and doing her butt-shake, foot-stomping thing over to my side of the bed, her ears back, her tail wagging, only to find that I'm not there. And I imagine this will crush her soul like nothing else in her six months on this earth. And she'll fall into a fit of depression and start hitting the bottle and smoking Pall Malls. And I'll come back home, and say, "Look Honey, it's me! I'm back!! It's okay now. All will be right with the world." But it will be too late. I'll have an alcoholic, chain-smoking dog on my hands. And she'll never forgive me for the pain and suffering I've caused her.

The truth is she'll probably see the empty spot on the bed and be sad for about the time it takes her to realize it's time for breakfast. Then she'll quickly go back to pondering the tragedy of leashes. Or dreaming about giant rawhides covered with bowlfuls of melted provolone cheese. Or peanut-butter-and-chicken stuffed kongs dancing with giant, day-glo pull-toys on a road paved with jerky treats. Yeah, she's probably more likely to pine over the neighbor's dog, Riley, than she is over me. And how she'd like to chase him in the back yard and lick at his slobbery mouth until it makes all the humans nearby want to vomit.

The truth is I'm the one who's going to miss her. I'm going to miss the routine of taking care of her. Of going for walks. Of teaching her tricks. Of giving her belly-rubs and hugs and kisses on the snout. It's me who's going to have the separation anxiety. I'm the one with issues, here. Clearly.

So if you see me, unshaven and unbathed. Passed out somewhere in Big-D with a bottle of Dewars in one hand, mumbling something about don't forget her bed-time snack, just look the other way. I'll be better in a few days. It's just my way of dealing.

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