Cute Til You PukePosted: February 11, 2013
I believe I’ve mentioned that Mom won’t let me get a puppy. Her logic is that she can’t take care of a dog because she can’t walk it or take it out to the backyard to do its business. Bill and I have explained that this wouldn’t be necessary because, since Mom can’t even take care of herself, we realize that our dog would be our responsibility. We’d take it out, we’d take it for walks, we’d take it with us or, if a miracle occurs and we can actually go on a vacation, we would board it.
None of this matters. In fact, when this argument falls flat, which it always does, she switches tactics and insists that having a puppy will ruin the carpet. We argue back that the carpeting is over 20 years old and looks every year of it and we’re planning on replacing it so now would be a perfect time to get a puppy. Great logic, right? Nope, not for Mom, who continues to insist that we absolutely, positively cannot bring a dog into the house. We don’t understand why someone who seemingly likes animals, and has had dogs herself, won’t allow one in the house.
And, to add insult to injury, she’s now driven me to hate Saturdays.
Why, you might ask, should an entire day – especially the favorite day of working people worldwide – bring out such feelings of animosity? Because it’s Mom’s day to watch cute puppy and kitten programs on TV. She follows ‘The Worlds Cutest Pets’, ‘Puppy Olympics’ and ‘Dogs 101’ with, not only rapt attention, but with the volume set so high that passersby know what’s on TV. This past Saturday there was a ‘Too Cute’ marathon and whenever an especially cutesy situation arose, like kittens wrestling or puppies tripping over each other, she would call me into the living room to point it out to me. This is why I hate Saturdays.
But, even though I suffer through puppy-less irritation one day a week, I go really ballistic on the subject twice a year – at Christmas and my birthday. This is because, when asked “what do you want for…” my first response is “a puppy!” So my looming birthday has once again provoked pre-dinner cocktail hour conversation on the sun porch between me and Bill.
“What do you want for your birthday?” Bill asked last night as we sipped a rum and Coke and watched the sunset.
“A…,” I started.
“Don’t say puppy,” he interrupted. “You know your Mom won’t let us get one.”
“It’s stupid,” I argue. “We’re old enough (65) to take care of a puppy. We’re responsible enough to take care of a puppy. We can afford to take care of a puppy. I want a furry friend!”
“I know, honey,” Bill said sympathetically. “Someday we’ll get one. But for now, I’ll be your furry friend and you can be mine.”
“Bill, just because I don’t shave my legs all winter doesn’t qualify me as ‘your furry friend!’” I snapped. “Once shorts weather starts, I’ll be un-furred, so I don’t count.”
“Okay, okay, cavewoman, settle down. How about I get you a dog DVD? Maybe ‘A 101 Dalmatians’ or ‘Shaggy Dog’?”
“Or how about you get me a DVD that tells me how to stand up to my mother and tell her I’m getting a dog and that she isn’t the boss of me anymore.”
“Okay,” he said. “I think that one’s called ‘Mommy Dearest’. Is that the one you mean?” he asked with a sideways grin.