So we're at the airport reuniting with my husband, and he says, "You know, the dog missed you--a lot."
"Really, what do you mean?"
He explains that Winston moped for a day after I left, then carried all his toys and bones into my office and hung out there, waiting for me to return.
And then, this afternoon, he'd gone into the bathroom and found a razor I'd used to shave my legs, carried it into our bedroom, jumped onto the bed with it, and chewed it up.
"So I had to watch the quilt cause there was a lot of blood," my husband concludes. "I guess he took it cause it smelled like you."
"Is the dog all right?" Zack and I both exclaim. "Did he swallow the blade?"
"I don' think so--He seems fine," my husband says, "but I bought hooks to hang all the razors."
P.S. When I got home last night, the dog seemed absolutely fine--he was so happy to see me he did backflips. This morning we went for a long walk, and he was bouncy as ever.