I’m afraid to change my phone number.

I don’t know why, but I still have my Virginia area code though I live in Colorado. I know that I should change it to 970 and take my last step toward residency.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Colorado, particularly the mountains, the bright cerulean blue skies, the clean air (until you get to Denver) and Old Town Fort Collins. I like seeing the mountains from the Mountain Avenue parking garage, the archway by Coopersmith’s and the sculpture of three geese with their wings touching as they lift out of the middle of the triangle of shops and restaurants in downtown.

In 2001, I moved to the Washington, D.C. area and stayed for seven years. I was homesick for Fort Collins, and now that I’m back here, I’m homesick for D.C. and Virginia, for the monuments, the Smithsonian museums, the Blue Ridge Mountains and the ocean, plus all the different towns and cities within a day’s drive.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t put a book down once I start it, and I can’t let go of the places I’ve been. I get attached. I roll through the memories of the places I love. It’s like they put grains of sand and pieces of brick and bits of stones into my heart, weighing me down wherever I go.

I got used to the fast pace of D.C., the business-clad coffee goers, the formal luncheons, the politics in the air I breathed, and the lack of bike trails except in places where you had to drive and park.

I took a long time to settle in, both in D.C. and back here. I guess part of it is being sentimental and a wonderer of the big what if? I hadn’t wanted to leave D.C. after I had been laid off and couldn’t find a job. I moved back to my hometown to be close to family, more of a security than being alone in a big city without an income.

I wonder how long it takes for where you live to become home. I don’t have sparkly red shoes to click. I just have memories and this clinginess to nine numbers.

I’d rather date my dog.

I’ve never been married, and I think I know why. I loved animals first. As a child, my teddy bears where top of the list, maybe because I was shy and found them to be safe companions. I played with them, held tea parties and gave them homework.

In high school, I started dating, but in college and after was when I had the boyfriends. Some were not so nice, or they were kind of boring, but they all were handsome. I went out with men for their looks – now, I know there’s more than the surface, but then I have a dog.

Her name’s Zoey, and if you read this, you need to pronounce it Zoo-eey with lots of affection. She weighs 8.8 pounds, is 1.2 years old and is 0.5 feet tall.

My miniature daschund greets me when I come home from work with wiggles starting with her tail that move her whole body into alarcity. She leaps off the chair and says, hi, hi, hi, as she runs circles around the coffee table. I really doubt a man would do that for me.

Zoey kisses me when she’s naughty or in the morning or when she runs by me. She wants to play all of the time, I mean all of the time, meaning that her attitude is all about fun.

She is my sleeping buddy, but if I toss and turn too much or hog the sheets, she doesn’t say anything about it. She snuggles smack against me leaning into my stomach – I’m a side sleeper – giving me a nightlong cuddle. What more could a girl want.

She doesn’t care how I look or what I wear, unless it’s socks, and then she wants to take them off, run around with them a bit and drop them on the floor. But if I put them back on, she has to take them off and run around, so that it becomes a battle of the sole.

Last of all, I can say I love you over and over and not wear out the words. She doesn’t have to say anything but I know in her dog language, she says I love you back. I’ve got it all, a best friend and a cuddle buddy in a nearly 9-pound package.