It was a good party.

Of course you would expect me to say that, since it was our going-away party and I am bound to be biased. But there were six dogs and plenty of food and lots of laughter and some tears and even a little barking and if that doesn’t qualify as a good party, I don’t know what does.

Jake, the mixed-breed pup who showed up first, was pretty chill when the entire family of border collies showed up -- all on leashes and looking like they owned the place. The border collies were delighted to see me because they had previously only seen me in their yard, handing out treats. It was like a colossal dog joke, seeing the Treat Lady in a totally different place. They were grinning from ear to ear and Jake decided they were OK.

But when the two wheaten terriers showed up, that was two dogs too many. Jake went crazy barking and his owner had to leave, which was sad. But the wheatens stayed, and they even performed “Who Let the Dogs Out” which their owner played on his phone while they barked along in time.

I was worried about the food because our kitchen is empty so this was a “Bring Your Own Everything” affair. I called my neighbor in a panic the morning of the party.

“Nancee! Should I buy potato salad? Should I make some garlic bread?”

“Why?” Nancee asked.

“I’m afraid there won’t be enough food! I have no idea what anyone is bringing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nancee said.

This was not Nancee’s first rodeo, so I trusted her. That evening, the table was completely covered with food. There wasn’t room for dessert until people ate up some of the salads and breads and chips and dips.

Charles, who is 85 and whose wife just died, came from across the street.

“How are you, Charles?” I asked.

“I’m sad!” he announced. “I’ve lost 15 pounds!”

“I’m so sorry, Charles,” I told him. “You better have more pasta salad.” And he did.

There were stories told and lots of laughs and I realized I knew more people than I thought I did, in this town where I spent most of my time alone. There were women from writers’ groups and people with dogs (of course) and neighbors of all ages, some of whom had never met each other. Everyone stayed much longer than I expected and it was fun to see these people together who seemed to have very little in common other than knowing my husband, Peter, and me.

It finally got dark, and that takes a while these days. The last people folded up their camp chairs and said their goodbyes. I made sure Charles had a lot of pasta salad to take home -- and five pieces of cheesecake.

“You do like cheesecake, don’t you, Charles?”

“Oh, sure,” he said.

“You have been a wonderful neighbor,” Peter told Charles, as I dished up pasta salad. “We will miss you.”

Charles’ eyes filled with tears as he took his boxes of food and headed back to his empty house.

“It was a good party,” I informed Peter, after everyone left, as I ate my traditional second dessert, the one a hostess is supposed to have after all the guests have left.

“It was,” Peter agreed.

“I think it was the best party ever,” I added.

“Why do you say it was the best party?” Peter wanted to know.

“There were dogs. The best parties have dogs.”

Peter couldn’t argue with that.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

My husband, Peter, is looking around our empty living room.

“I’ll always have good memories of this place.”

“I will too,” I assure him.

We are packing up the last of our possessions and heading across the country in a few days. We won’t be coming back.

This is the home Peter bought as a single person, when he retired a bit early. He wasn’t sure how much he could afford, but he bought this condo in the town where his sister, Lori, lived, sight unseen.

Lori drove by the house and sent him a text. “Buy it!” she told him. Lori was his bossy older sister, and so he did. He never regretted it.

But now Lori is gone, and we have decided to move closer to my parents and Peter’s family. All our furniture has been sent ahead of us and we have been more or less camping in our home. It has not been as hard as I feared, sleeping on a futon and eating off a few leftover plates, as Peter painstakingly prepares the house for sale. Peter ran a summer camp as a young man and this home is like his campsite; he wants to leave it better than he found it.

And Peter is sad. He has not even seen our new place yet, so he is moving into a foggy, unknown future, and I know that is hard for him. I took some pictures when I was there, with our furniture in place. I told him how quiet it was, how there were church bells ringing in every direction, how friendly everyone was, and how nice the grocery store was. Peter believes me, but it’s not quite real. This place is real, and so is his sadness in leaving.

Change brings a combination of sadness and excitement. Peter and I are both a little sad but both -- in our way -- looking forward to the move.

“I will enjoy it, once I get there,” Peter assures me. He knows himself and he knows what he likes. Most of all, he knows we enjoy our life together and we will be together.

And, while I am excited, I wonder how many new homes, if any, I will have in my life.

I was there when my grandmother moved into her final home. She was 99 and her health had finally begun to slip. She moved into a place that, while it was not called a nursing home, certainly was. There was a bed and a dresser, a handful of personal items, a couple of chairs for visitors, and little else in her room. She had to know (as we all did) that this was the last place she would live.

I felt the sadness and the finality of it, but that feeling did not have long to settle because, as my grandmother was wheeled into the room, she looked out the window at a brilliant red maple tree.

“Oh!” my grandmother said, “Would you look at that tree!”

Our eyes left the drab little room, and we looked out at the tree, caught in the afternoon light, a brilliant blaze of red outside her window.

I think that is how she got to be 100 years old.

My grandma always looked for the good in change, even at the end, even when the change could not be a harbinger of anything but the end. Because even at the end, there was a brilliant red maple tree to look forward to. There was something beautiful. There were still good memories to be made.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Tanner wasn’t waiting for me at the fence yesterday.

Dakota and Tanner, my two oldest dogs, are always waiting for me at the chain-link fence. Dakota can’t hear and doesn’t see well, so she stays close to the fence in the afternoon when I walk by in order to collect her treat. Tanner really can’t see or hear at all, so he keeps close to Dakota. Yesterday he wasn’t there.

The thing about giving out dog treats is that, even though I have a relationship with all these dogs, I don’t know much about them.

“Where is your brother?” I once asked a long-legged hound that I always met with her sibling.

“We had to put him down yesterday,” the hound dog’s owner said, as his eyes filled with tears.

“Oh! I’m sorry. That was sudden,” I said.

He nodded and wiped his eyes. The now-single hound looked up at me with big sad eyes, as if she knew what we were talking about. It was sudden for everyone.

Today I am worried about Tanner. He’s 14, and it pulls at my heart the way he takes his treat so gently. He cannot see my hand. His teeth are old and worn. His muzzle is gray. He is so old and kind and careful. And yesterday, he was missing.

My heart was already tender.

My husband Peter’s oldest sister, Shelley, has been in and out of the hospital for more than two months. She has made it out as far as rehab, and then had to go back to the hospital for more surgeries, more infections, more trouble.

Peter is still grieving the loss of his other sister, Lori, who died of cancer just this spring. He is worried -- we are both so worried -- about Shelley.

I try not to ask Peter, “Any news on Shelley?” because he would tell me if there was. And so I go for my walk and always in the back of my mind I’m wondering about Shelley. And then, yesterday, Tanner was missing.

“Where is Tanner?” I asked Dakota, as she ate her treat. She did not answer. I could tell she thought she should get a second treat, since I had another one in my hand, ready.

“This treat is for Tanner!” I told her. But she kept staring at me, giving me no clue where he might be.

I used to think bad news was the hardest thing to bear. Now I’m not sure if no news isn’t a little worse. No news is a constant buzzing. It is hopeful one moment and doom-filled the next. It is pain and fear mixed together. It is the anticipation of loss, and it causes me to see ill omens and sadness everywhere.

There is still no news on Shelley. Her son and daughter-in-law can’t know any more than the doctors, and the doctors don’t know what is happening. She is tired. She is sad. I imagine she must be lonely. All we know is that she does not call and her voicemail is full and that is not like Shelley.

I brought a couple of extra-large treats with me on my walk today. When I got to Tanner’s house, there was only one dog waiting outside. It was Tanner.

I hollered at him to no avail. I jumped up and down and waved my arms and finally caught his eye. He tottered over.

“Oh, Tanner. It’s so good to see you,” I told him.

“What’s the big deal?” he seemed to say.

Sometimes no news is the best news of all.

Till next time,

Carrie

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

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION