The Way It Is

"Company's Comin'!"

A lot of questions run through my mind when guests are scheduled to occupy the spare bed and bath in our home. I want them to be comfortable and to feel right at home—so Abbey and I make sure everything is fresh and clean and neat! We tear into the bathroom and scrub and scour every single surface with anti-bacterial, anti-fungal, anti-viral, and every other "anti" cleaner you could think of. We stock the linen closet with Downy fresh towels and white, white washcloths. Then we prohibit poor Randy from using what is usually his own private bath. "You can't go in there!" we exclaim, while his hand is still on the doorknob. "But I just want to wash my hands!" he pleads. "Sorry," we tell him, insistent that no germs whatsoever make their way into our totally disinfected, sparkling-clean, guest bathroom. He stares at us for several seconds, his hand still holding the doorknob. Finally seeing it our way, he releases his grip and travels to the kitchen to wash the work from his hands.

I wonder, too, if our coming company will be fond of Mr. Higgins. And if they are, I hope and pray he won't crawl into bed with some unsuspecting, innocent person in the middle of the night. This, I am certain, could cause a serious stir within the guest quarters. So far, my fears have been unfounded. Our adorable dog behaves himself in a manner above and beyond what one would expect from a dog. He's a good boy, and gets lots of treats for good behavior when company comes. I keep his treats in a square green jar on the counter labeled with black letters: COOKIES. And although the dog biscuits of Mr. Higgins could never be classified as cookies, I don't mind using my cookie jar to hold them.

Always I wonder if our coming guests will like my cooking, so I try hard to plan nutritious and delicious meals. Soup and salads always fare well, and our weary travelers have always appreciated the homemade baked goods I keep accessible on the counter. Brother Clayton especially enjoys a good, homemade anything! That's why I was quite surprised the last time he was here. "Mary, those cookies aren't so good," Bro. Clayton testified—his back to me as he sat on our living room sofa. "They're dry, and they're hard. I don't like 'em."

Shocked at the brutal truth of his statement, I whirled around from the place where I was standing. On the counter sat a half-eaten dog biscuit. Time stood still while my heart sank to the green tiled floor. Desperately, I searched my mind for a way to tell my beloved guest that he had just eaten dog food. I was sick. Mr. Higgins sat at my feet, staring upward in search of a milk bone. I stared back at him, completely stuck, completely mortified, and completely unaware of what to do next! Thick silence blanketed the kitchen for what seemed a very long time. Then came the chuckle, then the loud laughter, then the teasing…

“I gotcha this time,” the beloved guest laughed with all his might. “BROTHER CLAYTON!” I cried. “You scared me half to death! I though you actually ate a doggie treat!”

“Well, the jar does say ‘cookies’, doesn’t it?” he teased some more, knowing full well I had fallen—lock, stock, and barrel—for his little prank; that’s just the way it is!