The number of dog-induced mishaps has been unusually high this past week, and during such weeks I feel it’s only natural to begin contemplating how long this dog is planning to live. And I’m sure there are others wondering the same thing, such as the neighbors, the mailman, the UPS man, the Culligan man, the FedEx man, the paper boy, and the little old lady he chased across the street and up the hill last fall. I have not seen her since.
My husband is able to determine when I’ve had an unusually high “dog event” week when just about every other sentence I utter begins with, “After the dog dies…”
Although it would be an understatement to say I love my dog dearly, it never hurts to plan for the future — especially after he just broke away from me while I was attempting to dry off his muddy feet before letting him in the house and then chased the mail truck down the street.
I plan for the future frequently.
“After the dog dies we can plant some grass in the front yard,” I comment to my husband while surveying the dirt trenches the dog has loudly and animatedly dug while greeting passersby at the end of his tie-out.
“After the dog dies I’m going to start riding my bike again,” I announce to my husband while hobbling through the living room after falling down and spraining my ankle in the back yard while trying to retrieve a ball playing fetch with the dog. Yes, I know the dog is supposed to retrieve them, he simply prefers that I do it.
“After the dog dies I’m going to get a new lamp,” I remark, looking sadly at my lopsided $200.00 double pull chain brass lamp that the dog knocked over while he was trying to dig a tennis ball out from under the recliner.
“After the dog dies maybe the neighbors will like us again.”
“After the dog dies I’ll be able to work more.
“After the dog dies we’ll be able to pick up and go whenever we want!”
“After the dog dies there will be no more war and famine on the face of the earth.”
Well, maybe the latter is a bit of a reach.
My husband usually responds to my comments sympathetically by saying, “You spoiled him.”
Oh sure, if you call walking him two hours every day, buying him six dog beds (including one round cuddle bed, two orthopedic, one beanbag and two weather proof), and feeding him his dinner every night with a spoon spoiling him.
And I suppose he would consider his nightly back massages (no, not my husband’s the dog’s) spoiling him, too.
I would love to debate the point, but the dog really doesn’t like it when we argue.
That’s O.K. It can wait.
Until, well, after you know what.