One area of philosophical disagreement between Old Dog and myself is bed-making.
I'm of the pro-bed-making persuasion. I believe that beds should be tidied before one leaves the house. That way, if you die while you're out, everyone who comes to your wake will know you were a good housekeeper. Which, if you're dead, is really important. (Thanks, Mom, for raising me to be a total whack-job.)
Old Dog, on the other hand, is convinced that a) bed-making is an unnecessary activity and b) the sheets should be allowed to air out between snoozes. (That last was courtesy of Dr. Oz.)
Our compromise is that I wait till I return from the gym each morning to make up the bed.
On Tuesday, though, we had to leave the house at 5:30 a.m. for my brother's funeral in Sparta, TN. Not only us, but also my two sisters and two nephews and a grand-nephew who were here for my uncle's funeral. All utilizing two bathrooms. (I grew up with nine people sharing two baths. I have no idea how we managed that.) Anyway, I wound up running out the door with the bed unmade.
Fast forward to Wednesday afternoon, when I arrived home to evidence that a bird had somehow gotten into the house. I kept wiping up the spots (seriously, do those things just fly around and streaming guano like a jet trail?) and looking fearfully over my shoulder (because birds are rats with wings and they freak me out).
But I honestly didn't think too much about it till bedtime, when I entered the bedroom and discovered that our bird-visitor had interpreted the tumble of covers on the bed as a nest. In the center of the comforter were a mass of tiny feathers and several helpings of--you got it--bird shit.
Okay. I'm better now.
Anyway, proof-positive, in case you need it: BEDS SHOULD BE MADE EVERY DAY.
(Yes, you read correctly. We lost both my uncle and my brother in a very short span of time. Life on this planet really sucks sometimes.)