“But it’s MY deck and I like to sleep on it.”

“OLIVE? WHERE ARE YOU? OLIVE?” Where was my pooch to be found when the deck was being powerwashed on Saturday? As the powerful spray of soapy water soaked the sliding glass door, she flew out of the kitchen, legs sliding all over the tile floor like it was her first time on ice skates. A few minutes later, I call out to my goofy pooch: “OLIVE? WHERE ARE YOU?” I walk back and forth through the house checking all the beds, couches and overstuffed chairs. As I do this, somehow, I feel like Goldilocks. As I pass the darkened bathroom, there is Olive, standing in the corner, like a refugee from a third world country. The only thing missing is a babushka on her head. I notice a mild look of apprehension on her face, accentuated by her ever present pinpoint pupils. It is the same place that Idgy, my previous dog, used to retreat to whenever it started to thunder. A small room, in the center of the house with no windows. I’ll have to check with Olive, but this is probably the best place to go to in the event of a hurricane. After all, two out of two dogs used it as a “safe room.” I’ll trust their instinct over my book knowledge any day. I coax Olive out of the bathroom and lead her to the living room couch, where she immediately curls up and closes her eyes. They’ve stopped powerwashing. The noisy engines have been stilled. Peace has been restored, allowing Olive to get back to the business of dreaming about dog things. She looks so sweet when she’s sleeping, my heart grows two sizes larger as I quietly stare at her.