Technically, this won’t post until I’m already there – but bear with me.
The last two years have been – educational. One of the things I’ve learned is that ‘home’ for me isn’t a place. Any old roof with four walls supporting it will do for housing – but home, that’s different.
Home is warm, furry things.
It’s the furry cocked heads as I get out of the car wondering if I’m going to toss them something, come give them a pat or just speak as I try to walk up the stair – and loving me no matter which one they get. Home is the furry boys who will be there in the morning to be fed, watered and loved.
Once inside, it’s the furry crew that demands attention and insists on getting fur everywhere.
Home is a tiny ball of fur that rides on my shoulder. Home is an aloof fur ball that deigns to sleep on my hip once I finally stop moving. Home is a furry streak that chases another furry streak across the living room with reckless abandon. Home are the fuzz balls that have to be cleared from the bed so I can get in it – and which deposit enough fur to count as an extra blanket.
Home is love – mine just happens to be furrier than most.