I have never really been much for decorating my living space. I have some pictures up, and some keepsakes from my travels, and of course the requisite Texas flag hanging in my living room (don’t worry, I am not one of those people who thinks Texas should be its own nation). But I don’t do much in the way of decorating. My outdoor/sporting equipment (bikes, water ski, etc) on display is all I need. It’s more manly.

There is one thing, however, that I proudly display as décor: A pair of tiny cowboy boots that I apparently used to wear all the time when I was a toddler. I went everywhere in these boots. Whether I was playing in the backyard or going to the grocery store with mom, I wanted to wear my boots.

They are really small. They say 6.5 on the bottom, but if you’re like me, you have no frame of reference for toddler shoe sizes. They are about six inches long from heel to toe and about seven inches tall. They are made of tan leather in the “roper” style (short heel), and have decorative stitching.

Those who know me well might say that it’s not surprising that I have a piece of footwear on display. It’s not that I’m just that boring, although that could probably be argued. No, it’s much deeper than that, but you will have to look into my very soul to discover it.

Actually, you would just have to look in my closet. What you would find is probably a few more pairs of shoes than you would find in most guys’ closets. And when I say “a few more,” I mean a lot more. I currently have about 15 pairs, and I wear 10 to 12 of them on a regular basis. Sure, I have my favorites, but I try to spread the love as much as I can.

I know what you are probably thinking: “Aren’t you a dude?” Most people assume that footwear appreciation is reserved for those of the female persuasion, but I beg to differ. It’s always funny when people discover my affinity for shoes. One good example would be the female members of my church small group. When I returned from Christmas vacation last year, I had three more pairs of shoes than when I left, and none of them were presents. There was the pair of brown Sanuks (very comfortable slip-ons), a pair of white slip-ons and a super cool pair of black Pumas with green and yellow accents. These ladies were genuinely intrigued that a guy would buy that many pairs of shoes in a year, much less in a span of two weeks. It was a topic that kept coming up throughout the evening, and something that I had never really given much thought to until then.

I think that my admiration of shoes actually originated with running shoes. In undergrad, I was running enough that I was buying at least three pairs of shoes per year (you are supposed to get new running shoes every 200-300 miles that you run; your knees and back will thank you for it). Each time I retired a pair of running shoes, they became my everyday shoes, because running shoes are only for running. No exceptions. But if I’m going to be wearing them everyday after they get retired, then why not get shoes that look cool?

Beyond looking cool, though, there is a deeper reason for why I like my shoes so much. You can never figure out where you are going until you can make sense of where you have been, and my shoes have been with me every step of the way. To illustrate this, I would like to tell you about another pair of boots that I own: my hiking boots. I don’t wear these boots nearly as much, but when I do, I see the world from a completely different perspective. I have worn those boots to the top of Blanco Peak, in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of Colorado. They took me to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back out again. I wore them on an early morning hike up Guadalupe Peak, in far West Texas, to witness one of the most incredible sunrises I have ever seen. Every time I see those boots in my closet, I am reminded of the beauty that I have witnessed and look forward to what incredible things lie ahead of me.

They say you should never judge a man until you walk a mile in his shoes. Well, in my case, that could take you quite a while, and I’m not sure that I am comfortable with you wearing my shoes, anyway. That’s a little weird. You may absolutely admire them from afar, though, and even compliment them. It will probably make my day to know that someone else is enjoying my shoes as much as I am. Or even better, ask me about the story behind a particular pair of shoes. You can learn a lot about a person from their shoes, because no matter who you are, or where you have been, every sole has a story to tell.

The night that Hurricane Ike rolled through, my friends and I prepared by taking all of our refrigerator food, five cases of bottled water, board games and clothes over to my buddy’s three-story townhouse. Four of us converged at the townhouse around 2 p.m. and proceeded to play Wii and watch the news for the next three hours. Some interesting quotes came from watching News Channel 2: Galveston residents remaining in place faced “certain death,” and Galveston residents remaining in place should write “their name and social security numbers on their arm in permanent maker.” Upon hearing these headlines, our jaws dropped. We belly-laughed. We repeated the ridiculous lines to each other at least four times. Then we turned the news off and played the Wii some more. For our last piece of preparation, we drove our cars to a parking garage, parked all of our cars on the third floor, and then drew straws to see whose car would carry us back to the townhome.

The next three hours passed uneventfully. We played video games. We played board games. We cooked stir-fry. We started our hurricane party.

At 8 p.m., the power went out.

Actually, I was kind of pissed. It wasn’t even windy. Not to mention, I had not even played Guitar Hero yet.

With no power, we set up candles and turned on flashlights to play Asshole. Asshole is a card game; any card game with a vulgar title is probably a good choice for a hurricane party.

We played Asshole until 11 p.m. Then I went to sleep.

At 3 a.m., every person in our house awoke to a piercing, high-pitched, repeating noise. I leapt up the stairs to the second story to investigate what fell deeds were afoot: our hurricane radio/alarm clock went off. (While we were watching the news, before power went out, the newscasters said, “In your hurricane survival kit, you must have a battery powered radio” – for news updates. We did not have one. We dug through closets and came up with a battery-powered clock radio, which never managed to provide any radio, much less any noise – until the alarm in the middle of the night of course.)

On my way back to bed, I heard Ike outside. Curiosity (and adventure) demanded a brief expedition. I turned from my bed and opened the door. I walked down the narrow passage between the townhomes. I peeked my head out.

The wind howled at me. It tore at trees, bending them over until they danced parallel to the ground, limbo walkers in a raucous party.

And the rain. The rain hurt. It stung my eyes and my face. It slicked my hair.

The sum of the wind, the rain, the noise, the darkness, the lightning and the middle-of-the-night-factor created an overwhelming sensory experience. I was scared. I fled. I went back to my bed. I went to sleep.

In the morning, all that was left of Ike was a light rain that peppered the windows. I climbed out of bed and walked to the door. I opened the door and walked down the passage between the townhomes and stepped out into the place Ike just vacated.

The street in front of the house was not visible; it was engulfed in water. I walked into the newly created river/street. The water rose to my knees before I walked three feet. The water flowed steadily.

Trees lay uprooted on both sides of the river/street. Fences were knocked down. Shingles lay piecemeal across the ground. Power was out across the city.

That day we went to pick up our cars, and signs of Ike were all around us. Traffic polls rotated 90º. Awnings destroyed. Metal bent. Power lines laying in the street.

We slowly gathered news; school was closed for the next few days. Decisions were made; my friends left for Austin; I stayed and went to another friend’s house.

Ike hit Friday night, and by Monday, life in the city already started to look like normal. Restaurants and bars opened. The high waters receded and cars began to choke up roadways. People went grocery shopping and bought gas.

In another week, I wonder if any physical signs will remain of Ike’s passage through Houston. I wonder if my experience of this storm turned out so positively because I had places to go, friends to call. That moment of walking out into the storm, those 30 seconds alone with Ike, was more than I could handle. But everything else – sleeping that night, playing games before and after, cleaning up – didn’t seem so daunting because we went through it together.

I sit in the dining room at a table squeaky from overuse. The house is quiet, and the only light comes from the bulbs in our ceiling fan, one of which is unscrewed to conserve energy. The wind ringing through the chimes in the dark is a reminder that fall isn’t far away, and I wear a sweatshirt and curl my hand around a mug of hot chocolate in comfortable concession to the change in seasons. Four out of five of my students are gone for the evening – visiting friends, studying in the library, procrastinating on homework – and one sits quietly in his bedroom, his desk lamp casting a warm glow. I can see a slit of the room from where I sit at the table.

I have seen it in multiple iterations – first as Christie and Anna’s room, with Anna’s wedding gown hanging hidden in a garment bag in her closet for most of the year. Then, during the summer, as Carlo and Jon’s room, loaded with more camping and climbing gear than actual clothing. Now, I can see Michael’s makeshift bookshelf, and the yellow mug of tea resting on his desk, and Mickey’s giant Texas state flag hanging from the wall, and I am filled with an overwhelming surge of love for the students who bring the house to life.

If there are ghosts in this house, they are ones who play Scrabble and screw up the laundry machine and raid the kitchen at 1 a.m. with a craving for a cheese quesadilla. They flood the backyard and they bake bread together and they wash one another’s feet.

It’s taken a long time for this house to feel comfortable to me. I moved in a little more than a year ago not knowing the house’s phone number, not knowing how to make a phone call, frightened by the creaks and groans of the floor and by the large beetles that prowled the downstairs bathroom, which I was supposed to use. Sleeping in the basement was too much to ask of me in those first couple of weeks while I lived alone, so I took my essentials into an upstairs bedroom and slept there, nervously, checking to make sure all the windows and doors were locked, including the door to my room. Showering downstairs was out after my attempt to clean the shower stall was met with two large, ugly black spiders that I beat to death with a broom, after which I promptly broke into hysterics and called my mom. (Could have been part homesickness, but still.)

Something about being so far away from what I knew – just in terms of location – made any issues I would have with any new home a little amplified. I couldn’t call a friend and have them rescue me within minutes, or take solace with my parents. Living in a house on my own for the first time, just for a few weeks, drained me and scared me more than I was willing to admit. Having five students I had never met before move in for the year was a relief in comparison.

But even after the first group of students arrived, I still lived on edge. I slept in my basement bedroom, but I refused to shower in the downstairs bathroom. It always seemed like it had a spider lurking, just waiting to scuttle out while you were naked and vulnerable. My students accepted it as one of their “Mom’s” quirks that I needed to shower upstairs the entire year. Another one was that she still slept with her door locked.

But through their acceptance – simply through their presence, through the day to day act of sharing this space – I have achieved a level of comfort that allows me to sit, quietly, with my mug of hot chocolate in the mellow light.

I shower in the downstairs bathroom now, which in reality is bright and sunny and rarely has spiders. And I no longer wander warily through the empty rooms of my house, feeling like an intruder on someone else’s property. I can sit contentedly on a quiet night alone and appreciate the silence. And I can bask in the warmth of the house when the oven is baking lasagna and the kitchen is crowded with people cooking and cleaning and the laughter of our conversations spills out our open front door into the autumn night. Through the people who have passed through this house and imbued it with their own memories, I have become settled here. It is a joy to have moved so far away and found a place that I can call a home.

I had done it. It was over. I had handed in my Master thesis – only the Final Colloquium to go, and my degree would be complete. I was so proud of myself; I was floating five inches above the ground, full of excitement and joy over what the future promised.

Then I received my marks. My thesis had been reviewed by someone I respect very much. She is an expert in the field I wrote about and has many impressive and courageous qualities. She is very outspoken, doesn’t compromise her views to please others and works for a cause, not for prestige. I like that, and I admire it, too. A lot. I also know where that admiration comes from: the belief that I lack these qualities. That I’m too much of a coward to really speak my mind, that I always wonder what “the others” will think of me before I say something, that I’m too much of a chicken to show people who I really am because I fear they will not like it.

I had been looking forward to hearing what this woman thought of my work. I was also a little bit fearful, but hoping to, for lack of a better word, be acknowledged by a person I respected so much.

Then she gave me a “C.” A “C,” for crying out loud.

I could live with the professional critique, but receiving a less than a glowing evaluation from someone I respected this much felt like a personal offence. All the feelings of happiness, contentment and hope that I had had for the future were gone in an instant. Frustration kicked in big time.

The next thing I know, I am sitting in a colleague’s office, telling her the whole story. She understandingly listened to my complaints and showed sympathy for my frustration. She did not, however, agree with me regarding the way I wanted to react to what felt like immense humiliation. My first impulse, or default mode, was to stay locked in the shame I was feeling for disappointing my reviewer and myself. This was it – there was no way to make up. I had lost my chance. I could never look at this woman again without being reminded of the mistakes I had made. There would always be terrible awkwardness in any interaction between us. It was killing me already.

This is where my colleague intervened. She gave me what, in hindsight, I have to call the best advice I’ve ever received, even though I thought she had completely lost her mind at the time. She told me to call my reviewer and to thank her. To express my gratitude for the time she had put into writing the evaluation, for the good advice and constructive critique she had included in it, and the opportunity to learn more about my topic and improve my work.

Honestly, somewhere deep down, I still am a little ashamed that I was so preoccupied with my hurt ego that this idea didn’t even occur to me. It really was the best advice I’ve ever received (apart from my mum telling me not to buy that pink bike at 13). I called, literally shaking for fear of her reaction, and finally received what I had been hoping for from the beginning: acknowledgment. Making that call helped me – no, it was the only way to get over the shame I was feeling, and the only way to sustain a relationship with a person I respect very much to this day.

I believe that in the moment I picked up that phone, even though it was only a couple of years ago, I could, for the first time in my life, legitimately say I wasn’t a child anymore.

Do not ask me how I will give her up. Because I don’t know.

Every time she sits, tilts her head to the side, and looks up at me, I fall just a little bit more in love with her — all 12 pounds of her wiggly, Trego Winnebago self. And I’m not sure how my life will work without the constant companionship of this little girl who loves me unconditionally — even when I won’t let her chew on my shoelaces or I’m visibly frustrated with her for peeing on my floor.

How did I get here? How did I become not only a dog owner, but also a dog lover? That’s something else I don’t know.

But now I spend an inordinate amount of time hoping this happy ball of flesh won’t pee before we make it outside and I am — truly — overwhelmed with joy each time she sits patiently at the door, waiting to go out. She never even hops up and down or whines. She just waits. And then I let her out, giddy because my baby understands that the yard is her toilet, and, when she gets done with her “business,” I clap my hands, coo her name and thank her for urinating and defecating. Seriously? How did I become this girl? I don’t know.

So don’t ask me how, in 18 months, I will drive her then-grown-up self back to Washington, Kan., and then drive away. Don’t ask me how I will walk into a silent house after running errands or riding my bike. I’m not really ready to think about being able to eat curled up on the couch again without a dog face shoved between me and my plate. And don’t ask me how I’ll ride in the car with both hands on the steering wheel and an empty passenger seat. Because I don’t know.

So please don’t ask me how. But it’s OK if you ask me why.

Because last Saturday, on Trego’s first full day with me, we went to Amanda’s Dog Festival. And there, surrounded by canines of all breeds, shapes, sizes and obedience levels, I began to truly understand why I had signed on to be a puppy raiser.

See, Trego doesn’t have a dumb name just because. And she’s not allowed at my work just because. And I don’t get mad at people for giving her treats without asking just because. Trego is a puppy in training for Kansas Specialty Dog Services. I am her puppy raiser.

Someday, this pee machine — who only yesterday realized I wasn’t the only living creature in our front yard (damn squirrel!) — will be a service dog. And then, she’ll spend every waking moment (and most of the sleeping ones) with someone like Amanda. Or like Rachel. Or like Nancy’s best friend, Ryan. Trego will be like Bay. Or like Hamlet. Or like Kauffman.

She’ll have a job. And a family that not only wants her, but needs her too. And that need guarantees that she will be loved (as if her puppy dog eyes didn’t already have that covered!). And her partner will have the freedom I’ve had my entire life.

So that’s why I’ll take her back to KSDS, where she’ll enter Puppy College and prepare to be half of a working team.

And it’s easy to say why.

Just don’t ask me how.

Film patrons are divided into two categories.

One is the occasional visitor. This person has a dabbling interest in film knowledge and attends usually as a group outing or fun date. They might buy popcorn, but never the tub and never a hot dog. They arrive right on time or slightly late and prefer to sit near the rear of the theatre. I’d say at least 75 percent of America falls into this category.

The other is the cinema junkie, a rich deviant who plucks flickering pleasure from the screen and harnesses it deep within his or her pasty complexion. These freaks of nature are not athletic nor are they socially conscious to the outside world. Often they live deep within the recesses of their parent’s subterranean level, snacking on crunchy morsels and trolling Internet message boards with inane trivia superiority. I proudly count myself among the latter.

Being a movie geek requires that one consist on a heavy diet of celluloid. During Oscar season, I’m attending about one movie a week. Ditto for the summer blockbusters, even though that’s more of a guilty pleasure because I don’t value a well-polished foreign language film in the same category as Michael Bay blowing shit up.

Before I moved to Atlanta, theater distractions were never a factor. In fact, I was usually sitting with the biggest culprits. I remember having to finally elbow my friend when he wouldn’t stop giving me the play-by-play analysis of Minority Report.

So it was with great surprise at the awakening I got here. Atlantans have made rude cinema etiquette into a slovenly art form. They ask bumbling questions during quietly tense moments. They light up the seating area by texting their friends. They softly whisper the way Louis Farrakhan quietly prays.

It caught me off guard because I had never had to hush anyone. I never had to complain to the manager. By the third month I was practically yelling death threats to kindergartners. I guess I should better plan the screening time when going to Pixar films.

Time passed and my anger management grew worse. I stopped going to opening night because I found the gawky teenagers and asshole frat boys usually didn’t attend Sunday matinees. I settled down in obscure art houses for films that few people had heard of and probably even less wanted to see. Alone during the middle of the day, I could finally enjoy movies again. I felt like a hermit, trapped in my dark cave of odd smells and gooey floors.

Within a few months however, I realized that even my reclusive selection wasn’t working. Even during mid-day screenings at hole-in-the-wall establishments, there were degenerate simpletons whose sole purpose in life was to plop down hard-earned money to sit in the darkness and annoy others with their obnoxious tics.

Recently I went to a screening of an independent film. Five minutes into the opening, a group of middle-aged women came stumbling into the theatre and sat down in front of me. They resembled a suburban book club horde that had spontaneously decided to watch the film rather than try to read the text. These harpies would talk and laugh uncontrollably. They ignored our shushing and cackled like winos in a tire yard.

By the end of the movie, I was tired of tolerance. I wanted to spit fire. I wanted to pick a fight with the menopause syndicate.

Walking out of the theater changed me. I realized I no longer have patience for movie gawkers. If I’m shelling out ten bucks, I expect to get a decent theater experience. From here on out, I am letting everyone know that I am taking matters into my own hands. This will not be a second coming of friendly ushers toting low-grade flashlights. This will not be your mother leaning over to politely ask you to hush.

This will be vigilante theatre justice. This will be blood on the already sticky floors. Perhaps that’s a little far, but I’m promising brutal reparation.

From here on out, I’m packing heat. I’m bringing water pistols and Nerf guns. First offenders will receive a gentle warning. Second offenders will get a blast from my Supersoaker. If a birthday party arrives rowdy, they’ll leave dripping in my scorn. I’m taking the low road on this one. I’m never one to advocate mindless violence, but seeing as how it’s in a movie theatre, I doubt anyone would care.