I make a point to say "Let's go for a walk," when I put their harnesses on and get the leashes, and I wish Revel could somehow tell me right then that he would prefer not to go for a walk. He acts enthusiastic about it as far as the trash—he loves to go down to the trash—but when we turn the corner and he realizes that he's in for more than a trash run, he sometimes plants himself and refuses to go any farther. Oh, Ivy and I are annoyed; we desperately need exercise to stave off the anxiety (Ivy), fat and grumpiness (me). When Revel decides he's not moving, he is unmovable. He is a seventy-pound Aussie statue. Unless we turn back in the direction of home, in which case he picks up the pace. Put him in the yard, start over on what is now a girls' walk. He waits for us happily, unfettered by our feminine needs.
I know I should try to be calm and happy and not let my anxiety free-float around the house, because Ivy is anxious enough without my help. I know it will be a good trip. The boys and I are going to Mississippi to my parents' beautiful, comfortable house where I will not be in charge of the cooking or the cleaning. Woo-hoo! I hope I'll get some good pictures of Micajah, my parents' Westie. And I hope Ivy and Revel will forgive me.