There is, however, one downsize to the new/ old arrangement, one that slipped my mind during my three year exile to the north side of Highway 40. Six years ago I bought my wife the best birthday present I've ever given her before or since: a miniature dachshund puppy. Back when I first brought him home he spent most days perched on my lap while I pecked out words on my keyboard. His presence didn't create any problems when he weighed three pounds and didn't quite fill my two hands put together. Today he is by no means a large dog, even by dachshund standards, weighing in at a hefty eleven pounds and stretching out a foot and half, maybe a little more from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail. He has, however, reclaimed his daily spot atop my lap, with his his head perched atop my right arm. (This gives him the best view out the window so that he can make sure the neighbor's cats don't get away with anything.) The downward pressure of the family dog on my right arm makes typing a bit tricky even in the best of days. Throw my soon-to-be surgically repaired right shoulder into the mix, and the dog's act has become less than cute and charming.
Unfortunately for me, office politics being what they are, the dog usually gets what he wants. Like a nine year old whose life will end if she doesn't get an iPhone for her birthday, my dog doesn't like to take "no" for an answer. Thankfully the new/ old office has more substantial doors than its previous incarnation. The little dictator may insist on his prime spot with the view out the window, but there's not a lot he can do when he's locked out on the other side. Still, I close the doors with a sense of unease. I full well know that I will be in serious trouble if he ever develops opposable thumbs.