The dogs are missing me.

My husband, Peter, predicted this after we moved. "All the dogs will miss you!" he said. "They are going to be looking for the Treat Lady. Don't you think that's sad?"

I did not. First of all, I didn't believe it. Just because I passed out treats for a couple of years to the dogs didn't mean they would expect to see me again. Just because they remembered me when they saw me didn't mean I would ever cross their minds if they didn't see me.

But yesterday I got two text messages from dog owners claiming their dogs were missing me. Both included photos of the supposedly bereaved dogs. One showed a dog looking mournfully into the camera. The second was a photo of two dogs staring at the trail where I used to meet them on my hike in the evenings. The photo was captioned: "They look for you every night."

I am dubious.

For starters, the two dogs who are supposedly still looking for me are the border collies who attended my going-away party, and if you've ever met a border collie, you know how clever they are. I'm certain they remember the party and knew why we were throwing it. If they are still watching the trail, it is likely in an effort to find my replacement. They probably also have a posting on Craigslist: "Seeking middle-aged woman to provide refreshments an hour before owner gets home. Serious applicants only."

The other dog was Remington and if Remington is missing anyone, it would be Peter, who tossed exactly six goldfish crackers to him every day of the pandemic. Peter called him a "circus dog," and told him it was a shame they no longer hired dogs to entertain under the big top. Remington's goldfish cracker-catching skills are probably getting rusty, but that has nothing to do with me.

It's not the dogs who are missing me. I miss being the Treat Lady.

There is nothing stopping me from handing out dog treats. Every day, I walk through new neighborhoods, seeing new sights, learning my way around. At first, I had to consult my phone constantly as I wandered, with no idea where I was or where I was headed. Now I have a two-mile area in all directions pretty well explored. There are lots of folks walking dogs everywhere I go. But I haven't handed out any treats. I'm not quite sure why.

Maybe it's because I don't feel like I am a resident yet and handing out treats seems like something a host would do for a guest. "Oh! Aren't you a nice dog! It's so lovely to meet you. You look like you deserve a treat!" Maybe it's because I'm in a more urban environment and I worry someone might mistake me for a Secret Dog Poisoner instead of the Treat Lady.

Last night, Peter and I went to hear music in the park. There were dogs everywhere. Some were clearly veterans of the concert scene. They wagged their tails in time to the music as they walked by, too cool to notice strangers. Some were new to the whole thing, excited by the sounds and people and music. One young puppy caught sight of the pizza Peter and I were sharing and made a beeline toward us.

"Stop!" The puppy's owner said. The puppy reluctantly retreated.

I wasn't going to share my pizza with the puppy. But I wished I had a treat. Maybe I'll be the Treat Lady again before I know it.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

Years ago, I had trouble with my septic system. If you’ve ever had that kind of trouble, you know what kind of trouble it can be.

I was living in my old farmhouse out in the middle of the woods and had no idea where the sewage went until it suddenly went nowhere. That’s when I called the septic guy.

The house (and presumably the septic tank) was 100 years old, and I had never had occasion to get overly curious about where the septic tank was or exactly how it worked -- until it didn’t.

The septic guy located the tank and then made what I thought was a shocking comment. “There’s another one here somewhere,” he announced, and headed off into the woods, looking for another septic tank cover.

“There are two septic tanks?” I asked, confused.

“At least!” he said.

“Isn’t that unusual?”

“Not at all! I’ve seen up to five!”

“Five septic tanks?”

“Yup!” The septic guy was now searching through the underbrush like a hunter stalking his quarry. He smiled broadly. “The septic business is always an adventure!” he said.

I had honestly never thought of it that way.

Yesterday we had a somewhat similar situation under our feet. Fortunately, this one did not involve sewage, but only the floor -- which has been getting worse by the day.

The humidity has gotten the better of the inexpensive engineered wood flooring installed by the fellow who flipped the condo before selling it to us. The damage started as a buckle in the hallway, spread to some ripples in the kitchen, and is now making its way across the living room like furrows in a freshly plowed field. My husband, Peter, has had it.

“I don’t even like the color!” he said, looking out over the rippling black landscape. “I think we should rip it all out!”

And so yesterday a nice flooring man named Hayden came to visit. Hayden tut-tutted in what I thought was an appropriate way when he saw the ridges running the length of our floor.

“What’s underneath it?” Hayden wanted to know. Like my old septic system, it had never occurred to me to investigate.

"Rip it up!" Peter told him. “We’re getting rid of it anyway.” Hayden grabbed a chunk of the engineered wood and pulled.

“Parquet,” Hayden said.

“Excuse me?” I didn’t know what Hayden said, but it certainly couldn’t have been “parquet.”

“There’s parquet flooring underneath,” Hayden said, pulling off another board so we could see. “And it looks like it’s in pretty good shape, except for the paint they dripped on it.”

Peter and I stared at the beautiful oak parquet hidden beneath the dreadful rippling flooring. So now Hayden will be refinishing the parquet floors we never knew we had.

That evening, I talked to Vern, the guy at the front desk. He remembers Elizabeth, who owned our condo from the year it was built until she died last year. She was a character, and a bit of a hoarder, but apparently a wonderful person. “I’m betting she threw down carpet on that parquet and forgot all about it!” Vern said.

Today I’m grateful that Elizabeth never got around to remodeling, grateful the flipper was too lazy to remove the old flooring before he put in the new, grateful that Peter got sick enough of the growing bumps to do something about them. I keep going back to the hole Hayden ripped in the floor and looking at that lovely parquet hidden just beneath the surface all this time.

There are adventures everywhere, and not just in the septic business.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I’m not sure when a house becomes a home, but I don’t think we’re quite there yet.

My husband, Peter, and I have moved into the new place. All our stuff is here, but that doesn’t mean we know where anything is.

“Have you seen the strainer?”

“Which strainer?”

“You know, the fine one.”

“No.”

We have about two dozen conversations like this every day. We got rid of a lot of stuff and now it’s hard to remember what we kept. Then I unpacked by myself, so Peter had to go on a scavenger hunt when he got here. Finally, we had the “last-minute essentials” we brought with us, and we’re still unpacking those. It’s a jumble. Peter was convinced (unreasonably, I assured him) that every T-shirt he owned had mysteriously been lost in the move.

“I found them!” I heard him yell from the bedroom. “Mystery solved!”

I am realizing how much I do on autopilot. I reach for a soap dispenser that isn’t there. “Do I even have a soap dispenser?” I wonder.

I look in a likely box and notice something I’d forgotten about and I put that away and, when I do, I notice something else in a drawer where it shouldn’t be and I move it. Suddenly, I find I am standing in the middle of the kitchen with no idea what I’m doing there.

“The soap dispenser!” I remind myself. I end up using the bar of soap in the bathtub.

Then there are all the things we need contractors to do. Nobody is excited about renovating an old condominium when there is so much new construction going on, so my day is spent wheedling contractors to come over. We need electrical fixtures installed, we need the flooring repaired where a bump has developed, and we’d like to replace the old yellow bathtub. Since I am better at wheedling than Peter, I make these calls. I have particular success if the contractor is married and I can wheedle his wife. I did that this morning and got the electrician, George, to come out in less than an hour.

It was a busy morning. In addition to George, a self-described “handyman” named Steve visited. Steve the handyman turned out to be quite handy and will be helping us out. George the electrician, however, turned out not to be an actual electrician, which was disappointing -- especially after I had had such a friendly chat with his wife. Not to mention, his card said “electrical contractor” across the top.

“Nope,” George said. “I can’t do that.” Oh well.

Meanwhile our little balcony (which is the best part of the whole place) is closed off for painting and maintenance.

“How much maintenance can a balcony take?” I asked Peter. Apparently quite a lot, as they have scaffolding running up the building and yellow ribbon running across the balcony like the scene of a crime.

“Don’t worry,” Peter says. “It will all get done.”

And, of course, he is right. We will get rid of the bump in the floor (which seems to be growing) and we will get to enjoy our balcony and we will have our electrical fixtures installed by someone who is actually an electrician. But for now, I am looking forlornly out at the forbidden balcony and wondering when this will feel like home.

We showed George the bathtub, and he said he could replace it. I think my next call will be to a plumber to see if he’d like to install some lighting fixtures.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION