Datebook: Thursday, January 17th ~ 2008

I am having a bit trouble with my mental preparation on this eve of our travel day.

It is not the packing, or planning that went into packing—(Okay, it works out that I am taking five pair of black pants, this makes the shoe selection easier but some people might be thinking I am a Johnny Cash fan by the end of the week). It is not the print-outs of schedules, and tickets, and confirmation numbers. It is not the reading assortment selection from “beach reads” to classic mystery to nonfiction self-improvement (this gave me the writing idea of “Who Moved My Skate”?).

No, the problem is, ten days is a long time to be away from the ones you love.

Let’s face it. We get used to waking to a sweet kiss of greeting, and having a warm body waiting when we come home at night.

Yes, it’s hard to leave the dogs.

Oh, I know my husband will feed them, and play with them, but he probably won’t put fresh ice cubes in their water bowls, or make little tent havens for them at bedtime out of the comforter.

He’s also caught on that I call during the day when he is working and talk to them before the message machine kicks on.

“You know I can see the numbers of the last twenty callers. And they’re all you.”

“I get confused with the time change and think you might be home.” I bluff unsuccessfully.

“Some people might think that it’s…well…a bit unusual to call to talk to the dog.”

“I don’t call to talk to the dog. I don’t expect them to answer—I just don’t want them to think I’ve forgotten about them.’

My husband makes that funny face where he is a composite; part Stan Laurel and part Dane Cook, with the big eyes and hunched eyebrows.

“Why did you put those picture frames on the bottom shelf—“ he asks, “It almost looks like you’re putting them at eye-level, well, eye-level for a fox terrier.”

“I’m just using some Feng Shui techniques—it draws your visual line down”

“I think it is more of a “Fox Shui” move and she is going to chew the corner off your White Face mountain backdrop.”

I sigh because I know I won’t be able to talk about Izzy, and missing Izzy, with my daughter in St. Paul.

She is not an Izzy fan.

My daughter likes dogs, but she likes ones that keep their four feet on the ground and are pretty much in the “Mellow” group. She wanted a dachshund, or a pug, or a sweet Boston Terrier like Kevin and Brooke share.

She does not like the Terrorier, who she describes as a hair-shedding bully, which is a bit harsh—Izzy is more of a bouncer, like Tigger

“You should be glad to get away from her for a week. Maybe your bruises will heal now.”

A week in Minnesota would be restful and enjoyable if it weren’t for all the nerves and angst about the actual competition. And the missing the dog part.

“Suppose,” I query my husband, “Suppose I send Izzy a post card from St. Paul. Would you read it to her?”

My husband shakes his head and murmurs something about zamboni fumes, but he won’t repeat it.

I guess I’ll just send it first class to make sure it gets here before I come home.

Mombo