Isn’t this dog his dream?

As most of you know, my husband Doo recently fulfilled his dream of owning a Labrador puppy named Libby. For me, however, she’s more of a living nightmare. Here’s where we currently stand:

The fun started Friday with the spaying of the aforementioned Libby. I came home from work to find Doo on the floor soothing a very sad, very drugged-up dog. She didn’t even bark; just a pathetic whimper as she stared at me through her protective post-surgery cone of shame. In that moment, I actually felt sorry for her.

The feeling passed quickly though as Doo jumped up and said, “Well, I’m off to dinner with my parents. Don’t let her run, don’t let her play, watch for vomiting and fever. I’ll be back later.” Whaaaat? Yes, his brother was visiting from out of town, but how is it fair to make me the primary nursemaid to a pet I never wanted mere hours after she’d had her mommy parts removed and well-before I’d had a chance to funnel a goblet of wine? Why does Doo get to swig margaritas while I’m left to worry that I might accidently let “his baby” bleed out?

I survived the evening, as did Libby, though I’m not proud of the choice words I had for Doo (so much for that New Year’s Resolution). By the following morning though, I’d gotten over the whole mess and was fairly helpful (and tolerant) the rest of the weekend.

Then Monday morning arrived with extreme puppy yelping. Shoving Doo, I told him to go take care of “his dog.” He refused. “She just wants to play. She’ll go back to sleep.” Fine. Only she didn’t. 3:30, more barking, more shoving. In fact, every thirty minutes until six, high-pitched yaps resonated through the house followed by the low mutterings of supposed reason from my husband.

When I finally stumbled downstairs for coffee, I was greeted by a scene that brought back Godforsaken memories of twin toddlers left alone too long with dirty diapers. Libby hadn’t wanted to play; she’d needed to go outside! Her kennel had three separate “accident” piles. Gagging from the stench, I marched back upstairs and LET DOO HAVE IT.

I realized later I might have been overly dramatic and apologized. But I’m still harboring some resentment over the fact that I seem to be the one having to deal with all of the dog issues. At least I can safely complain to all of you. I, and I’m sure Doo, thank you!  Peace out.

Danielle Wilson

I was born in Louisville, Kentucky, the same year Dick Nixon was elected. Along with my twin sister and three younger sisters, I attended Catholic schools for thirteen years. (Holy Mother, pray for me.) I spent two years as a cadet at the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado until I wised up and transferred to a more normal school, Indiana University, where I received a B.A. in history and a teaching license just for funsies. In 2001, I officially entered the ranks of stay-at-home moms to care for my two-year old son and newborn twins. I have mentally blocked all of 2002 and most of 2003. In 2004, I received a Master’s degree in U.S. History from I.U.P.U.I. and a fourth child from my should-have-had-that-vasectomy-sooner husband. From 2005 until mid-2010, I played Super Mom in the yet-to-be released indie film "Provide Daycare for Your Sister-in-Law's Children Because You Don't Have Enough to Do Already." I returned to teaching this fall at an undisclosed Indianapolis school where thankfully very few parents know who I am. I am considering developing a bad habit.

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