Home is Where the Dogs are Buried

Maggie looking out the window of Randall Mansions 1998

I’ve never felt entirely at ease in large homes or dreamed of owning one myself. Rattling around in all that space makes me anxious. I’m like Omar, my chihuahua mix who always wedges himself into corners, or presses his back against a wall before he drops off to sleep. At my dad’s house in Florida, he’d squeeze himself into a nook on the bottom shelf of a bookcase, between a row of plastic three ring binders containing old…