I walked Ashley to her car. She looked at me, said, "I've become used to having you here.  I'm going to miss you."

"I'll be back soon."

"And then you'll be moving back into your dorm. Between classes, homework, dorm life... I won't get to see you that much."

I didn't know how to answer that.

It still surprised me how fast we went from boss and employee to boss/landlord and employee/tenant to, well, basically lovers. We never used that word.  Maybe it was because of the age difference, maybe because our animal sides were largely non-social. The emotions were there, but we never gave them a name.

 A tear threatened to slip out of her eye and roll down her cheek.  She blinked it away, kissed me softly and said, "See you in two weeks."  She got into her convertible Mustang and drove off.  I watched her down the long gravel driveway until it curved around the trees.  I heard the gate squeal as she opened it. She drove through, closed it, and drove off.

I walked back to the table on the veranda, sat down and finished my coffee.  Afterwards, I cleared the table and washed the dishes. 

When that was done, I put my bags in my Civic and started the boring drive to my parent's house.  It wasn't until later that I realized I no longer thought of it as home

It's about a four hour drive from San Antonio to my parent's house near Houston.  Most of Interstate 10 is fairly straight and flat.  I was somewhat surprised to see that mile marker 666 was there.  It's missing more often than not.  My guess is either metalheads or offended Christians steal it.

I got to my old neighborhood around noon, and stopped at a supermarket near home for dinner ingredients and treats for our pets, Charley and Tigger. 

I don't know whether Tom Wolfe wrote "You can never go home again" before or after his childhood home was replaced by a convenience store, but he's right.

My old neighborhood wasn't the same.  It took me a while your realize it smelled different.  More precisely, I was smelling it differently.  They say scents are closely tied to emotions and memories, and my nose was much more sensitive than it used to be.  I pulled into our driveway and stepped out of my car.

The scent of a suburban Houston neighborhood is lawn chemicals.  The memory it evoked was standing in a garden store with my father, surrounded by fertilizer and weed killer.

Also, not too far upwind, lived a family of werewolves.  How could they stand it?

I grabbed the groceries, opened the pet treats, and turned to go inside.  Charley was watching me from they back window, bouncing up and down, tail wagging so fast it was almost a blur.

I unlocked the back door, opened it as Charley raced around the corner, and tossed him a treat.  "Hi, Charley!  Remember me?' I said as he gobbled it down.  A few more followed.  Then her tail went between her legs, her hackles raised, and she pulled her ears back.  His happy bark became a snarl.  I thought this might happen when she caught my scent.  I looked, sounded and acted like his old friend, but smelled different.

As I walked through the mudroom into the kitchen he retreated, still growling.  I put the bags on the kitchen counter, looked around and saw Tigger on the back of the couch, watching the pittie mix with feline disdain.  He hadn't caught my scent yet, but the draft from the air conditioner was carrying it towards him.  I took some cat treats and walked over.  He sniffed my hand for a long time before accepting the proffered noms. 

By the time Mom got home, I had finished everything I wanted to.  I was sitting on the couch with Tigger on my lap, purring like a motorboat.   He decided I was his new best friend when I purred back at him.

For some reason, it brought back a memory of my grandmother bouncing me on her knee on our couch, chanting the words to "This Is the Way to London Town" and "Home Again, Home Again."

Charley was still suspicious, though. She was watching me closely from across the room. What's a dog to do when her best friend comes home smelling like a cat?

I looked up at our family crest, proudly mounted above the fireplace.  It was a Scottish wildcat, sitting with one clawed forepaw outstretched. "MacPherson of Clan Chattan" was written below it, and, on a belt wrapped in a circle around it was the clan motto, "Touch not the cat bot a glove." 

I chuckled wryly. Yeah, I touched a cat without a glove. Would a condom have helped?

And that's where things stood, or rather sat, when Mom pulled into the driveway.