The Handoff

I’ve had many. Touch football on the dead-end street as a kid. Kids turned over to me to babysit. Then I married my husband and we take care of each other.

His book is nearly done. Several copies were printed for editing purposes. We can each do that and have professionals read the document (have two local docs who wish to read said tome). It’ll not be anything you can find at Barnes & Noble, but perhaps Amazon under tech literature in a few months.

Every time he leaves town for a week or more, he tosses me the football in terms of an old dog and our home. My freedom is that if he’s coming back Friday night I get to buy him a frozen local thin-crust pizza and heat the oven (better than airplane food) and cook fish, to which he is deathly allergic, until Wednesday then let our home air out so his allergies are not triggered.

While home, I get up early. The dog awakens him. He comes to check on me. I just say “I’ll take her. Go back to sleep.” She wants to see me to make sure I don’t go anywhere without her knowing. Not that I’ve ever done so in nearly 14 years with her! She just wants to know I’ll take her out and feed her “dinner” first thing in the morning and let her get more beauty sleep. It’s why at nearly 100 in people years, she looks much better than I feel.

I believe that presidents once carried a case with nuclear missile codes called The Football. My football is just a way to a silk collar/leash and a key to our front door. It’s 5:15 a.m. and she is sleeping on a wood floor just outside our bedroom door. She wants to be back on the bed, but doesn’t want me to head for the hills before seven. She is conflicted as the door is shut for noise and she needs to choose. She chooses me, but if I take her out before seven and my husband is in bed, after she eats she wants to be back in our bed, my spot. I lift her there as she has no hips.

Ah, well, what is one to do? We try to make everybody in our small family happy. Cheers and a Happy Thanksgiving! Dee