Now I am busy. I have a bunch of work, deadlines that keep moving closer to the present - and not in some figurative way, either; they've actually changed - and we have a dog.

It's not really our dog; in fact, it isn't our dog at all. We're dogsitting. This dog, whose name is Clover, is pretty well-behaved but a little jittery. She follows one from room to room and paces like a little old lady. And, like nearly everyone else who walks into our house, she has fallen deeply in love with Leah but regards me with something between suspicion and tolerance. Yes, I threw a dog-modified soccer ball (bone-shaped handles) to her for 20 minutes in the back yard, but apparently I took her back inside too soon. How do I know? Because she had the gall to steal the ball from me as I opened the door to go back in. Even alone in the house, I am not in charge.