My wife likes to keep an assortment of snacks next to my la-z-boy recliner.
Sometimes she’ll put them out in the container they came in, but other times she’ll put them into smaller containers in order to ration them.
Like I have no self control.
Anyway, two weeks back I came home from work and found some new snacks.
I looked at my wife and said, “Do you honestly think these will help to prevent me from pissing all over the toilet seat?”
“Put that down! Those aren’t for you, those are for the puppy!”
During our marriage we’ve looked after plenty of dogs - more than I can remember at this point - but it’s been well over twenty years since we’ve cared for a puppy.
As some of you know, my wife works with a golden retriever rescue organization. When the other volunteers discovered that we’d recently lost our dog to cancer, word spread quickly, and in less than two weeks a woman we’ve never met called and said, “I’ve got a puppy with your name on it.”
Soon afterwards, our house began to change.
I went into the attic and pulled down the dog carrier I’ve had since before we were married.
My wife looked it over and said, “It smells funny. And the door is rusted. There’s no way I’m going to let my puppy sleep in that thing. Get rid of it.”
The next day I came home to this.
Soon afterwards, dog beds started sprouting up everywhere.
Then I noticed that all of the house plants that once thrived in front of the fireplace were now gone.
“So what happened to all of the plants?”
“I got rid of them. We can’t have those types of houseplants if we’re getting a puppy. What’s wrong with you?”
“Uhhh…. lots of things, but OK.”
Later that evening I sat down in my recliner, cracked open some pistachios, and tossed the shells where the trash can usually resides. They ended up all over the carpet instead.
“What did you do with my trash can?”
“I put it on top of that cabinet. We can’t have a trash can on the floor if we’re getting a puppy. What’s wrong with you?””
“More than I’m willing to share.”
I picked up the shells and then tossed them in the can on top of the cabinet.
Then I walked into the bedroom and said, “What’s all this?”
“Those are her toys. We don’t want her getting bored.”
“Of course not. God forbid she live the life of an accountant.”
“What did you say?”
We picked her up yesterday morning.
My wife said, “I’m going to call her Trixie.”
“After the prostitute in Deadwood?”
“No, after the author Dean Koontz’s now-deceased golden retriever.”
When my wife was out of ear shot I looked at the pup and said, “Don’t listen to her. You’re named after the filthy little blonde whore from Deadwood, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Can't tell you how glad I am we've got all of these fucking dog beds all over the house.
At least someone here is getting some sleep.