Dear home
I am writing from beneath a table. It smells of bread, a rain jacket and somebody’s very serious poodle. My person drinks coffee as though there is nowhere else to be. I agree: the spot is soft, water is nearby and the lead is slack.
The server asked my name. My person answered with the grin usually reserved for dessert. We will go home soon. I will remember less of the café than the quiet time and the fact that no one made me greet strangers.
A note on the back
Home, one thing I forgot: the door rings every time it opens. At first I checked every arrival. Then my person moved the mat away from the passage and the job became easier. Now one raised ear is enough.
The poodle left before us. I never learned his name and nobody seemed to suffer. My person finished the coffee, freed the lead from beneath a shoe and asked whether we should go. A good question. Easier to understand than dessert names.
On the way we went around a puddle I wanted to investigate, then returned to it. The compromise took ten seconds. At home I lay on my mat, the same one from the café. Apparently a small piece of home can travel with you.
For a real outing like this fictional one, check the venue’s rules and choose a quiet time. Keep the first visit short. Being able to leave calmly is more useful than a promise to stay until the planned end.
Useful? Save it for your next walk.
