We were all snugly sleeping in our tent. The hubs and myself comfortably (mostly) on our bourgeois air mattress, and the kids in their sleeping bags surrounded by 82 glow sticks. Then I heard through my mom half-sleep, a pleading whine, along with the rustle, rustle of dog feet. There at the end of the tent was my ridiculous little dog, who I wouldn’t describe as outdoorsy, staring at me with bug-eyed dog panic. He clearly had to go outside, but maybe couldn’t figure out if the tent was technically already outside. Oh, to be so walnut-brained. After he left the tent and did his business — which I won’t elaborate on, except to say that I think he ate some bad mushrooms while securing the campsite perimeter — and was once again snoring an inch from my face, I laid there imagining how I might save us all if someone with an ax decided to stop by. Finally, I slept. This is camping, family-edition.