Every couple of months Mighty Marc and I talk about getting a dog. Then we slap each other in the face and shout, “Get Over It!”
The one time we gave in to our longing we bought a darling, energetic, puppy and named him Spike. After exhaustive weeks of training him, we were forced to accept that we were too old to deal with a high strung yapping puppy, so with tremendous guilt and sadness, we found him a good home and swore never to do that again.
Every time the urge returns we remind each other what we went through with Spike, and that holds us for a while. Still, the yearning persists.
Last week we caved in and visited Pet Smart’s rescue dog section, where we fell in love with Erika; a sweet, calm, Carolina dog who craved affection. She looked into our eyes, licked our faces, and sat at our feet. She was perfect.
We were proud of ourselves for exhibiting restraint, and not impulsively bringing Erika home. Instead, we slept on it.
The next morning found us both ready to commit.
We walked into Pet Smart and found Erika, on a leash, yelping, and dragging a 250 pound Pet Smart employee down an aisle. The man’s body was nearly parallel with the floor as he did everything in his power to control Erika who, in just 24 hours, had morphed from tranquil to ready-for-takeoff. Mighty Marc and I pivoted and headed for the door.
Determined to find a dog, we drove to Noah’s Ark, where we met Webster. The scars on his body spoke volumes about the abusive life he had endured. He had epileptic seizures that required taking Phenobarbital twice daily, forever. He responded to our affection in a way that filled our hearts with joy.
We walked Webster around the grounds. He never tugged at the leash. He was compliant, and we wanted him.
Webster began sniffing the ground so we allowed him to find the perfect place. When he finished doing his business, he sniffed it……and ate it.
I looked at Mighty Marc. “I’m outta here.”
“I’m right behind you,” he said.
The next time we need a doggie fix we’ll visit shelters, pet dogs, then go home.
I was in the kitchen when I heard blood curdling screams, followed by a string of expletives , coming from the garage where Mighty Marc was working. I thought he had fallen from a ladder, cut off a finger, or worse.
I became airborne, as I flew down the hall and stairs prepared to see blood. What I saw, instead, was Mighty Marc standing in a huge puddle of a can of $35 paint he had purchased forty minutes earlier. His brown loafers and the lower half of his jeans were pure white.
I was surprised to see he had done this because he’s incredibly neat when he paints; on walls or on canvas. He doesn’t use a drop cloth because he doesn’t need to. He could paint in a tuxedo and not drip. I, on the other hand, use drop cloths, wear a canvas apron, latex gloves and a shower cap, and still manage to drip paint, walk in it and even leave droplets in areas of the house I never entered.
I told him I could get the paint out of his shoes. I lied. I worked for half an hour on those damn shoes and all I did was shrink them. I learned that leather shoes don’t do well soaking in a sink full of warm soapy water. I hadn’t intended to soak them but Mighty Marc had bought thick, quality paint. So, his brown loafers are now beige with white stitching, and when they dry I’ve no doubt they will fit Barbie’s Ken, perfectly.
We generally go marketing together. I make up two shopping lists: one for my side of the market and one for his. On this particular day his list had him picking up my medication at the pharmacy. When we met at the cash register I asked, “Did you get my inhaler?”
“Yes,” he said. “That prescription cost $141. I couldn’t believe it.”
“I know,” I said. “I pay that every month.”
“Are you sure the prescription wasn’t for birth control pills?” he asked.
“Are you crazy? I’m 73 years old. Why would I need birth control pills?”
“Well, for that kind of money, for sure you’re getting screwed.”
Leave A Comment