When Jehovah’s Witnesses Come A-Knockin’ …
In an un-trafficked corner of our living room sits a humble, lumpy pet bed. It’s our dog’s safe place. When he’s curled up in his stinky, duct-tape-patched bed, no one in the family is allowed to mess with him: no tug of war, no wrestling, no stealing his ball to play fetch. It’s the only place he can claim as his own in this big ole tug-of-war world — the tiny, impenetrable corner of the universe where he can let his guard down, sigh deeply, and be at peace. Where he can let his fur flag fly.
That’s the way I feel about my home: It’s sacred, personal space where I’m protected from the hubbub just beyond, where I don’t have to make excuses for blasting John Fogerty’s “Rock and Roll Girls” and dancing through the house until I’m out of breath, or apologize to anyone for still being in my skivvies at 11 a.m. on a Saturday.

So I didn’t apologize to the cheap-suited salvation peddlers who darkened my doorstep last weekend. First, I let my dog lunge and snarl at them through the glass window of the front door. They could see inside and we made eye contact, but I made no move to answer the door because (1) I didn’t invite them here, (2) I wasn’t wearing much, and (3) I could see they didn’t have cookies. Continue reading God-Peddlers: Beware of Resident