As many of you have read now, I received lovely cedar deck for my fifteenth wedding anniversary. The other night, my husband burst in the door from work and whispered in my ear, “Do you want a puppy for your birthday?”
How do I get so lucky to have such a generous husband?
I immediately shook my head “no” which I have been doing for the past fifteen years every time he asks if we can have a dog.
For days he worked on convincing me that we needed a chocolate Labrador.
“But the kids are finally potty trained, can make their own peanut butter sandwiches, and don’t cry all night!” I protested loudly.
“A puppy is really, really cute,” he lobbied.
“But then they grow up and make really, really, really big piles in the backyard!” I lamented.
“We can name her Samantha,” he said quietly.
“Here we go again,” I replied as I rolled my eyes. You see, there’s a story behind the name Samantha for my husband. When he was a little boy, he had a crush on Elizabeth Montgomery (a.k.a., Samantha Stevens in the television show Bewitched). He tried to name our daughter Samantha and I wouldn’t let him. Then he tried the bird, the rat, the hermit crab, and finally … the puppy.
“Sammi” arrived five days later, eight weeks old and full of energy. The first night with Sammi turned us all into nocturnal creatures who wandered around the house in the darkness with our ears covered to muffle out the whining. By sunrise, none of us were in the same place where we started sleeping at the beginning of the night. I was on the couch in the basement, my daughter was on the couch in the living room, my husband was on the floor next to the dog kennel, and we still haven’t found my son. I did receive a note in the mailbox this morning from him that read, “Call me when the dog is a year old.”
So far, we’ve had her three days, five hours, sixteen minutes and thirty-five seconds and she’s chewed up three rugs, the woodwork in the kitchen, two dog dishes, and two pairs of my socks. I found all the items later in … you guessed it … inside the big piles in the backyard.
And my husband? He’s madly in love with another woman. I am no longer the first person my husband greets when he comes home from work. The other day, he practically ran into me as he dashed for Sammi when he came in the door. “Hello my little darling,” he cooed. “How was your day?”
I stood in front of him. “My day was wonderful, precious. How was yours?”
“I was talking to the dog,” he said dryly. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” He then delved into fifteen minutes of so much nauseating baby talk to the puppy that I lost my appetite for dinner.
Yesterday, I found him lying on the couch watching football with Sammi sacked out on his stomach. “Should I be worried?” I asked.
“I’ve always wanted a woman to watch football with me,” he smirked.
“We’ll see if she sticks around once you jump up, yell at the television, and do your “this referee stinks” dance,” I replied.
I’ve always been an optimist, trying to look at the bright side of things. I’ve decided that since my husband seems to love hairy creatures so much, I’ve decided I don’t need to shave my legs anymore.
That puppy might have a cute face, but I’m definitely the smarter one.