It was still dark this morning when our sleep was interrupted by all the activity outside our window: car doors slamming, dogs barking, loud conversation, and the annoying rumble of suitcases being pulled across the bumpy pavement. We're back in the apartment, and all our young neighbors were headed to work. George, our likeable but lead-footed upstairs neighbor has a penchant for strange caterwauling music, and whoever built this complex skimped on the insulation.

I do believe we're the only residents here who don't have a dog. Early in the morning and again after work, you see them: beagles and bassets, dachshunds and dobermans, all sniffing busily on the little patches of grass, or frisking down the walkways, executives-to-be in tow. Trips to the dumpster to empty the trash require vigilance, and one watches where one steps. It's a little sad, thinking about all of these apartments, filled with lonely dogs, waiting all day for their owners to come home, and here I sit, dogless, and missing Andy. There must be some deeper meaning in that, but it escapes me at the moment.

Our first appointment at Emory tomorrow is at 12:30.