Two cardboard boxes in her hand, Kay glances at me over Rosebud in her high-chair. A week before we move out, this is home. I feel like a passing train, and Kay has just woke up and started her day. The platform moves past. I want another routine commute, please. "We should start at the middle," she decides, seated in front of the bookcase. The electric kettle snickers "Water's ready for tea." "I'm taking Nellie." "Are you making eggs?" "I was thinking maybe you take Nellie, pick up some coffee and those egg sandwiches, and then I remembered all the eggs in the fridge." Nellie does a fancy trick. She waits about a block to pee. We have a corner lot with ample yard, but we try putting her out and she sits at the bottom of the steps. In winter snow she will do her business and scamper back. Why she waits a block? Unlike our friend's dog, Jake, who stays with us on occasion,  pees like a tagger, marking tree after tree, r