This is the look that Samba gives me when my suitcase comes out. As the washing machine hums and and the packing begins, Samba’s anxiety manifests in quiet whines and pleading stares.

She doesn’t know that while I’m gone she’ll be staying with her best friend, Hank, and will return from the weekend exhausted from the continuous tumble of big-dog wrestling, complete with leg sweeps, pins and other Octagon-worthy moves. She only knows that my suitcase means I’m leaving, and that she’ll miss me while I’m gone.