A few days ago, we went to look at a house. The owner greeted us at the door and requested we put sanitary foot covers, the kind surgeons wear, over our shoes so we wouldn’t scuff the floors.

            The house was beyond immaculate. I didn’t even see a stray dust mote. The owner led us proudly room to room, pointing out the “buttery finish” of the oil paint he’d selected for the dining room walls, and the gleaming perfection of the brass wall sconces he’d reclaimed from the basement and painstakingly polished to their original luster. Our real estate agent kept gushing that she couldn’t get over how pristine the place was.

            “This house was built in the thirties, and it’s only changed hands three times,” the owner replied. “And, my wife and I are like both sets of previous owners; no dog and” -he looked over at Micah- “no offense, but no kids. Dogs and kids really do a number on a house. This place was in top condition when we bought it, and we’ve kept it that way.”

            We saw the rest of the house- the carefully color-coded clothing in the closets, the strategically placed pillows on the sofas- and after thanking the owner, walked outside.

            “Wow, “ I said. “That house is beautiful.”

            Micah nodded. “Yeah. But you know what it could really use?”

            “What?”

            “A dog and some kids,” Micah said, and we got back in the car and drove home.