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I spent my early childhood in a dry cleaning truck.

My daddy had what would now be called an anxiety disorder. Dreading being alone, he needed my mother and me to accompany him on the dry cleaning route, which was his morning job. He made everything so much fun that I never wanted to be anywhere else.

We would head out Hanging Moss Road, with the windows down. I would put my face up to the passenger window, and the wind would rush through my long hair. Life was good.

At least I thought so. My mother traveled the dry cleaning route with us so that I would not be alone with my daddy. She thought her presence would keep me from becoming neurotic like him - fearing germs or tornadoes or maybe both. (She seemed to assume that her own neuroses would be safer to pass down to a child.)

Despite her efforts, those mornings may have some loose connection to the less disruptive of my various neuroses. Places like motel rooms activate them. When I have to stay in a motel, my first reaction is to look at the bed and wonder who was in it last, what went on, and whether or not the sheet was really changed. The quilted coverlet on top seems especially dangerous since I know that no motel would have it cleaned after each customer checked out. I would really like one of those covers that L. L. Bean used to sell to put on top of motel beds.

Needless to say, I try never to touch anything in the motel bathroom, certainly not the bottom of the bathtub. I cannot prevent the bottoms of my feet from touching it, though. Regardless of who may have been there last, I care too much about personal hygiene to put off showering until I get home. My brother, who spent most of his career working for the Health Unit, told me that you can never really be sure about a motel toilet. I don't know whether he was sadistically trying to increase my neurosis or if he shares it.

Unlikely experiences can activate my condition. I think of a church that was innovative about Communion. The congregation stood in a circle and passed around the loaf. Each person would break off a piece and, while speaking the ancient words, hand the bite to the next person.

Worrying about so many people pawing the bread, I tried to watch closely and give my husband a bite that not many people had mauled. It calmed me somewhat when the church acquired a tray and quit passing the bread like a football. Still, I was glad when we moved to another city.

My husband and I let our dog Baggins in bed with us, and I sometimes mix up my coffee cup with the one that protects his spaniel ears. I don't really worry, though. Only human beings seem reeking with germs. Maybe my daddy never thought to caution me about accidentally sharing a cup with a dog. I know it was for the best that he concentrated mainly on disease spread by humans.

Living with a dog is one of my great joys, and I rarely ever encounter a motel.

- Pat Gardner

Pat Gardner, a retired academic, lives with her husband and their half-spaniel dog Baggins. She enjoys meeting outrageous people in places like grocery stores.