Rufus is suspicious.

I know I'm just a dog and all, but something seems amiss in the M house. Something fishy is going on. To put it mildly, there is something wrong in the state of Denmark. (One of my readers can correct me in this feeble attempt of an allusion to Hamlet.) Mr. and Mrs. M. have been throwing together . . . video and still cameras and a laptop computer on the Mister's part, and books, stationary and pens on the Mrs'. part, along with an item of clothing or two, into bags and breifcases. My mistress has been acting rather odd all week, running around like a chicken with her head cut off. I must say, though, it has been extra fun around here of late, as my mistress' best friend has been around a lot. (She is also one of my own best friends.) Something tells me that even if my suspicions prove true, and Mr. and Mrs. M. do leave for a while or two, said best friend may just stick around to walk me and feed me and love me and make tea for me. My mistress, though, doesn't seem quite herself . . . a bit out of sorts, I'd say. My intuition tells me she has some anxiety over what to take and what to leave. I know she is going somewhere enjoyable, but you'd think she was the captain of the U.S.S. Misgivings. Poor girl, to be in such a quandary; oh, well, at least I'll have free access to all my usual accoutrements.