Tanner and Dakota are waiting for me.

They’re standing at the corner of their chain-link fence, watching the sidewalk. They know I’m coming, even if they don’t know exactly when, even if they can’t see the sidewalk very well and can’t hear at all.

Tanner and Dakota are my two oldest dog customers, dogs I give treats to nearly every day. My husband, Peter, has decided against paying the big bucks for high-priced dog treats full of questionable ingredients. He bought himself a dog-bone-shaped cookie cutter, did some research on the internet, and now he bakes healthy dog treats for me to take on my daily hike. As you might imagine, as the Treat Lady, I have a lot of loyal customers.

Some of the dogs have even tracked me to my home. Matilda, a pudgy corgi, knows where I live and pauses every time she walks by with her owners, licking her lips. One day, Snoopy, the giant Bernese mountain dog I meet on the trail, was walking by the house. Snoopy is now almost a year and a half old and weighs more than 170 pounds.

I told Peter, “That’s Snoopy!” and (probably unadvisedly) called out the front door, “Hey, Snoopy!” Snoopy stopped in his tracks and stared.

Darron and Monica, Snoopy’s owners, came and chatted on the stoop, and I thought no more about it. Snoopy, however, has a very good memory.

A few days later, we saw Darron and Monica and Snoopy passing (probably intentionally) on the other side of the street. Not wanting to be pests, we didn’t holler out the door. But we were watching Snoopy staring at our house and walking more slowly. Finally, he came to a dead stop on the sidewalk, still staring at our front door. We could see Darron tugging on his leash, and that’s when Snoopy decided to lie down. Snoopy went on strike.

There isn’t much you can do when a 170-pound dog has decided he is going to lie down on the sidewalk. We saw Darron and Monica’s growing frustration, and that’s when Peter yelled from the door, “Hey, Snoopy!”

Snoopy leapt to his feet and bolted straight to our door, dragging Darron down the steep hill in front of our house. Snoopy landed in a happy, panting pile on the stoop.

“You see?” he seemed to be saying to Monica and Darron. “We had to visit!” Snoopy is a very sweet dog.

All the dogs are sweet. Fergus, a cattle dog of some type, leaps into the air whenever he sees me on the trail and gives me a kiss on the face. His owner no longer says, “Stop, Fergus!” because there is no stopping Fergus from kissing me. Fergus loves the Treat Lady. And I really don’t mind at all.

As we prepare to leave this place, I think of all the dogs I am going to miss and I wonder if they will miss me. But I know there are dogs in every state, in every country, and every dog needs a treat. I don’t think I’ll stop being the Treat Lady, living somewhere else.

Tanner and Dakota are still waiting at the fence. I give them each a treat, and Tanner barks in excitement. His bark is loud and strange because he is deaf, but I can tell he is happy -- even if he can’t see me, even if he’s not entirely sure where this treat is coming from.

“You’re such a good dog,” I tell him, scratching his gray muzzle. “You deserve a treat.”

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

It is a well-known fact that we are allowed to chew out the people we care about. Most recently, this came to mind when I gave my old friend, Andrew, a serious tongue-lashing.

Andrew is a lifelong bachelor, and a committed curmudgeon. He is better than most curmudgeons at being curmudgeonly because he started young. Andrew showed signs of being a grumpy old man when he was still in his 30s. But Andrew is no longer in his 30s, and this is what brought us to our recent conflict.

Andrew is not taking care of himself. He would argue this is not true, of course. He would say that he lives a healthy life and even eats vegetables on occasion. He rides his stationary bicycle on a nearly daily basis, and he has no bad habits -- which is probably true, except for the bad habit of ignoring the advice of his dearest and most concerned friend.

My problem with Andrew is that, like a lot of men, he does not go to the doctor. I’m betting every woman reading this right now is clucking her tongue in unison. I rarely make sexist generalizations, but I have observed that women seem to take the whole “going to the doctor before there’s anything wrong” thing a lot more seriously than men do unless there’s a woman nudging the man in the ribs. This brings us back to Andrew.

Andrew knows he’s supposed to see a doctor. He also knows he’s overdue for a colonoscopy, which he is not looking forward to, and so he dawdles and, eventually, he puts it out of mind completely -- until I remind him.

“You haven’t had a doctor’s appointment yet?” I ask, accusingly.

“I’ve been busy,” he says.

This is true. He has been busy lately, as he is a tax preparer and tax preparers are madly busy for about three months of the year. The rest of the year, however, he has been dawdling.

“So, have you had your annual exam yet?” I asked again, after he had a chance to rest up for at least two-and-a-half days. He did not answer.

I told Andrew if he died early of something preventable, I was going to give his eulogy and say, “He was an idiot and he got what he deserved!” and sit down.

I wouldn’t really do this. But I feel like it every time I hear he still hasn’t gone to the doctor.

Andrew will tell that you he is extraordinarily healthy. Logically, he knows this is no reason not to have a medical exam, but he will cite the fact that he has never had a cavity as evidence of his better-than-average health. There are no reputable studies linking an absence of cavities to immortality, that I am aware of, but Andrew clings to the conviction that he is not like the rest of us cavity-riddled mortals.

I checked my email to see if Andrew had written this morning. He has not. This means one of three things: He is still mad at me, he has not yet scheduled an appointment, or he is mad at me and has not scheduled an appointment.

But I am still nagging him.

I don’t care if he is angry with me because I don’t think he has anyone else nagging him to take care of himself, and I care about Andrew very much.

A person doesn’t get more than one friend like Andrew in their life. I’ve got to do everything I can to keep him around, complaining as long as possible.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I finished my bath and saw that the rust-orange towel had molted all over my body.

I was covered with tufts of orange fur. It was not a good look, and it felt worse than it looked. Worse yet, it gave me a taste of what the next two months would be like.

My husband, Peter, is a man of many systems, and I have learned to appreciate this over the six years we have been married. He has a particular way to do nearly everything, from making coffee, to washing the dishes, to ordering food stuffs. I have found, by and large, it is best just to stay out of the way and things operate very well.

This brings us to moving.

Peter’s idea is that it makes sense to get our possessions out of the house before we begin the painting, minor repairs and deep cleaning. As we have already purchased our new place, Peter says we should ship all our belongings, visit my parents (finally!), and then return to a clutter-free house and do the work needed before putting it on the market.

I’m guessing you have already figured out the weakness in this plan.

“It will be like camping!” I reassured myself. But one bath with the orange towel has me reconsidering. The fluffy white towel I have grown accustomed to has already been packed and the orange “camping towel,” which will be pitched when we leave, has taken its place.

“Peter, I’m covered with fuzz,” I reported mournfully.

“That’s a very old towel,” he agreed.

“I don’t think I can use this towel for two months,” I clarified.

Peter gave me a look that indicated he thought I might be a bit of a whiner.

“Then don’t,” he said. “You use the blue towel.”

I knew the blue towel he meant. It was navy blue with a huge bleach stain on it. This was a generous gesture on Peter’s part. The blue towel is an absolute gem compared to the orange towel.

“What will you use?” I asked.

“I’ll use a small towel.”

“How small?”

“Just ... small!” Peter said, as if I was getting a little too nosy. “I’ll use a hand towel!”

I couldn’t think of any decent hand towels roaming around at this point in the packing.

“You mean like a tea towel?”

“I’ll be fine!” Peter said.

Now I have images of Peter getting out of the shower and drying himself with some tiny relic, with tulips in the corners embroidered long ago by an elderly aunt. And I fear the worst is yet to come.

Strategic lamps have disappeared, leaving corners of the house in utter darkness. I did not point this out to Peter. He would only reassure me that the days are getting longer.

My biggest concern is that my desk, where I spend nearly all day, will be traveling without me. Peter is leaving behind his awful-looking desk and says I can use that. I am not excited. His desk has some sort of tower on top of it, and a slide-out drawer where my keyboard is supposed to sit. I have no idea what will stop the drawer from sliding back in as I type, and I have tried not to consider this too deeply.

But, of course, we will get by. And I comfort myself by imagining how overwhelmed by luxuries I will be in our new place -- once we finally get there.

Full-sized towels! Light in every room! My desk!

And Peter will get to work, implementing new systems for our new life together.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION