It’s been told many times before: a man goes on a journey, and leaves his dogs at home. They scream and wail for many days mourning his absence, and they forget about him. But only for a while. Time and seasons go by and the world changes. They grow old and lose their cute features. Some of them even reproduce all while their master is away. And then one day he returns and they can’t believe their eyes. First they bark at him, then they wait for a little while trying to take it all in, the image of the stranger standing in front of them. Then they fly over him ignoring all need for caution. It’s him. He’s back. He’s back! Whoof, whoof. He’s back.

The smell of dirt of my dogs’ paw prints all over my clothes have not left me now as I write this. They used to be three. Now they are six. They have jumped, and whimpered, and done everything imaginable to me. And now I believe that I’m home, for sure, and I need a good bath. And sleep.

PS: There are a few new discoveries: That my last grandmother is dying and doesn’t recognize me anymore, for one. This, of all things, is going to be harder than I can take.

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