reunited and it feels so good

Over the weekend, I drove home to Iowa listening to the end of The Worst Hard Time, this book about the Dust Bowl that I could talk about for 12 hours straight.

So much learning!

Such a contrast to drive through the elephant's-eye-high cornfields as the book described scorched earth, blizzards that fell as mud from all the dust in the sky, and 36 days in a row when the temperature went above 100. {Note to self: do not complain about heat again. God may smite you with a dust bowl.}

I should move on from the book—before this turns into an ode to dust and that Woody Guthrie song "So Long, It's Been Good to Know You."

{Note to self: write an ode like that.}

I was going home to Iowa to pick up baby pug, who had been staying at my parents' house while I was on vacation in France. This is, of course, a completely fair trade: Iowa for France.

It's fair when one of you is a pug.

I was worried that Miss Daisy might a1a) not remember me, or b2b) be mad at me for leaving her in Iowa while I gallivanted off to the land of pastries and good butter. {I don't know if pugs have discerning enough tastebuds to know good butter, but in my mind, she was going to be mad at me about the butter, not about the abandonment thing.}

I called my mama the other night to check on baby pug. They had just gotten home from vacation—

Yes, they were on vacation, too. You're probably wondering, "Did you leave Miss Daisy to fend for herself? Perhaps by using her little pug legs and jumping up to eat the ears of elephant's-eye-high corn?"

And to that I say, "Now that's just ridiculous. First of all, my parents live in town where there are no cornfields. Second of all, I'm sure their two pugs would help her out and they could build a pug pyramid to get the corn, should they find any stalks in town, which, as mentioned before, is unlikely."

My parents have a pug sitter from the vet come to stay with their puggies when they go on vacation, so I figured that Miss Daisy would be in good hands. Perhaps more capable hands than my hands. I pretty much figured it'd be like a pug spa for Miss Daisy.

So I called my mama to check on baby pug, and she said, "Do you want to talk to her?"

Now, I may be one to think that my pug is going to be mad at me for butter.

And I may talk to her out loud while we're on walks.

And I may try to explain to her why she can't bark at every little noise, using all my powers of logic and expression.

Doing all of that is one thing; talking to your pug on the phone is another thing entirely.

It wasn't much of conversation. Obviously. She mostly tried to breathe as a form of communication.

My mama said she licked the phone, which cemented in my mind a reason why you should never let a pug talk on the phone, besides the fact that pugs can't talk to begin with.

But now Miss Daisy and I are reunited and yes, it feels so good.

When we got home to Glen Ellyn yesterday, she ran to every corner in the apartment, making sure it was just as she remembered.

My bed! My food bowl! My toys! My treats!

And yes, I am, once again, projecting emotions on to Miss Daisy.

You see, that's how I feel when I come home, whether I've been gone a weekend or a week.

Of course, I don't get excited about my food bowl, mostly because I have multiple food bowls that I call "dishes," but I do have this overwhelming sense of relief when I step inside my apartment.

My bed! My books! My multiple DVDs of The Mary Tyler Moore Show! My flowers! My time!

I may not run around and sniff everything—even though I live alone, even I know that would be weird—but I do smile as I settle into my reading nook to catch up on the newspaper.

And that is exactly what Miss Daisy did in her own pug way: after calming down, she went straight for her favorite spot on the couch, circled around 10 times, then plopped down with a pug smile.

She was home. And it feels so good to have a place, a space to call home, where you know you belong.