It started out nobly enough. Given my dog Ed's recent physical deterioration, I stopped making any plans that would require me to leave home for long. Spokane folks can visit me this year, and I don't think I'll be watching the Seahawks play in Pittsburgh as hoped. That's okay. I owe it to Ed.
Somewhere along the way, though, this notion has transmogrified uncomfortably from "I owe it to Ed" to "making a list of really cool stuff I get to do as soon as Ed dies."
I try to puncture my guilt with gallows humor. "Would you get a move on?" I ask her. "You're critical path on my Australian road trip."
It doesn't help.