By Cappy Hall Rearick
“Happiness is a warm
puppy.” ~Charles M. Schulz
Day 1:
As Empty Nesters, my husband, Babe brought home an adorable
chocolate Lab. I didn't think I would ever be able to own a dog because of my
allergies, but Babe assured me it would be okay. I'm glad I listened to him. I
haven’t sneezed, coughed or swelled to the size of an NFL linebacker in the
twenty-four hours since puppykins came to live with us.
Day 2:
I could put that precious little face in my mouth and eat
her up. What a doll baby. Because she's such a perfect little dog, we were in a
quandary trying to decide on which name would suit her best. I suggested Lady
Ga Ga, but my husband said, “No. It should be Lady Godiva, for obvious
reasons.” I won that argument because I believe when you give something a name
it acts accordingly. My dog will have more going for her than if she were
associated
with an upscale Hershey Bar.
Day 3:
Lady Ga Ga has taken a shine to my antique oriental rug, the
one my grandmother, God rest her soul, left me when she died. The upside of it
is that it seems that our precious puppy-poo, like Granny, has excellent taste.
The downside is that she feels it necessary to mark her territory on every
square inch of my beautiful rug, the little dickens.
Day 4:
Babe said he didn't mind making an emergency trip to
PetSmart at seven o'clock this morning when we completely ran out of puppy
pee-pee pads. He took along a sledgehammer heavy enough to break the glass and
rob the store in case it hadn’t yet opened. What a clever man I married. Lucky
for him, the manager is a morning person. Babe could only buy five-dozen pee-pee
pads for our little bundle of badness, but that should be more than enough.
Surely, it can’t be much longer before she is housebroken.
Day 5:
It is hard for me to understand how, but Puppykins has
managed to go through every one of the new pads Babe bought only yesterday, so
Lady Ga Ga scored another point on Granny's rug. My house smells like a nursing
home. Lady Ga Ga’s loving eyes and the cute way she cocks her head to stare
straight through me were adorable four days ago, but today, they are getting on
my last nurturing nerve. If Babe's dog pees or poops on Granny's rug one more
time, they are both history. I have allergies. I have lived all of my life with
a firm Animals Don't Live in the House with People Policy. I have limits.
Day 6:
This morning Babe went in search of an open all night pet
store in case we need more pee-pee pads later tonight and just after he left, my
doorbell rang. It was the UPS man delivering a new issue of It's All About Moi
Magazine. I love getting packages via UPS and flirting with the hot UPS guy. I
may be over fifty but I’m not dead. I asked him if, by chance, he suffered with
dog allergies. He said he did not. Then he added (with tears pooling in his
luscious Paul Newman blue eyes) that he was still mourning for his recently
departed Poodle, Tammy Faye. The poor little thing had choked trying to eat his
wife’s false eyelashes and within fifteen minutes she had taken a trip to PTL
Dog heaven. Feeling obliged to help that poor man out of his sorrow, I gave him
Lady Ga Ga. I hope his burden of grief will be lifted, not as high as Tammy
Faye went, but enough to get him through.
Day 7:
I have been grinning for so long my jaws ache. Each time I
picture Lady Ga Ga riding in the front seat of that UPS truck looking so darn
happy, I know in my heart that Mr. UPS and Lady Poo Poo, uh, I mean Ga Ga, are
a match made in heaven. I will have to muddle through my days while lounging in
my now environmentally refreshed and blissfully quiet home with no distractions
or smelly rugs, reading my newest issue of It's
All About Moi Magazine.
What can BROWN do for you?
Cappy Hall Rearick
Syndicated Columnist and novelist
2012 Nominee, Georgia Author of the Year