By Cleo.

You can see by her nylabone and sweet glazed stare that she’s settling into the house nicely. Like she’s always been there.

I’d been worried. And though I’m quite sure I wasn’t the first to fret about a transitioning dog, it sure seemed like it around here. Greg said she’d be fine as long as she had her pooch pad.

Check.

Josie said she’d be fine as long as she had Josie.

Check!

We boarded her on the moving days, so she wouldn’t be underfoot in the chaos that she hates. Cleo is very much a peace-and-quiet girl. She likes everyone to be non-threatening friends who share toys and treats.

Here, she suspiciously mistakes a black sock – I swear – for another lab.

She’s a sweet girl, but no genius.

Now we hear her padding and clacking up three floors of stairs and down again, over, and over, and over. She’s sniffed every corner, discovered the fridge, and picked her sunny spots.

Now prints track the floors and I’m tripping on bones – a sure sign things are going well, going normal. Wet spots on the floor lead to her water dish.

Turns out every window is lab-head height, making each one a lookout. I mean, there’s a whole neighborhood of new squirrels out there.

She’ll never get one, of course, but a dog can dream…

…and think glorious thoughts about absolutely nothing.