The Producer is moving into a new home/office Baku-style McMansion with a pool and a huge yard. This is a good thing. He's moving out of the ghetto apartment next to the trauma hospital where the trauma sometimes stumbles in on a bloody stump. He's going to end the gravy train for Samaya the Azeri cleaning/sleeping-on-the-couch lady. No longer will the kitchen and the bathroom serve as the shower. Goodbye to the Mecca tag and the ceramic model of the Karbala shrine, stuffed with feathers and camel weed, hanging on the wall.
But there have been rumblings lately, subtle comments, about my fitness as a single mother. There have been insinuations about the quality of life enjoyed by dogs who have only one park and limited educational and social opportunities. He recently quietly questioned my judgment for rushing the Most Precious Dogchild to the vet for $200 in blood tests when he refused to eat breakfast one morning, the very act of which seemed to cure him (totally fine, BTW. No liver failure, thanks for asking).
The Producer going to start a custody battle!
One one hand, I cannot live without my assistants. I went three days this week without talking to anyone who speaks my language. If I didn't have dogs, I would become a crazy lady and start collecting cats (as if lengthy conversations with dogs falls in a category that's not called "crazy lady"). The Carpetdogs are natural mood regulators. I don't think The Producer wants live with the consequences of a wife who works at home in a foreign country and doesn't have a lot of friends.
On the other hand, I know the Producer. He sees poor street puppy living on the site. He sees his big yard. He thinks, "we need a guard dog." And just like that, we're moving three crates of dogs and 200kgs of luggage on and off crappy airplanes. I cannot have this.
I have two dogs. He has none. OMG! Sophie's Choice!