dont leave me, guys

This is our dog, Pasha. He’s a rascal, a fighter, a lover, a terrier, and as you can see here, quite a pouter. He sits atop the highly unofficial and equally vague, “greatest guys ever” list. He is also my best friend. I can safely say that (safely not in terms of certainty, but in terms of not expecting physical retribution) because I don’t think my girlfriend reads any of this. (Reminiscent of the line from the late, great Mitch Hedberg: "I don't have a girlfriend, I just know a girl who would get really mad if she heard me say that.") She and I are taking a quick trip to the sultry wasteland known as Los Angeles to see the nieces, catch some rays, and eat at the In-N-Out Burger. In addition to the horrifyingly execrable experience of familial dysfunction, these trips bring on the gut-wrenching decision of either leaving the li’lest guy (also known as Pashi, Mushu, or Mushi-mushu, if you're not into the whole brevity thing) here in the cold and lonely megalopolis, or sticking him under tons of steel making what I imagine are terrifying noises for hours as we’re all transported across the country, him into the tired and regretful clenches of underpaid baggage handlers who I hope are kind enough not to dognapp and sell him on the black market for the tens of thousands of dollars he's surely worth but rather see that he arrives safely and without incident into my welcoming and nervously awaiting arms. ("I know I'm paranoid, but am I, too paranoid?") We have decided that the stress and trauma of being left alone in our apartment with his sitter (which we cannot come close to estimating with any certainty) is less than the stress and trauma of accompanying us via checked baggage (which we also cannot come close to estimating with any certainty) on our fairly short trip. Probably the safest decision, but one that will nevertheless bring me immeasurable anxiety, longing, and sadness over the course of the next few days. Don’t worry li’l guy, Raddy will be home soon.