Everyone who knows me knows that I am a dog person. I like all animals, (maybe with the exception of amphibians and rodents) but particularly dogs. And I especially like MY dog. All my neighbors know him, even the Muslim kids who live down the street and are taught that it is against God’s will to have dogs in the house, even they love my dog. When you walk into my garage, to the right of the door that leads into the house hangs 3-4 leashes, of various lengths and colors. In my car, there is usually 1 or 2 more leashes, depending on the day and the need. And when you walk into the house, there is a 6-pronged, wrought iron Golden Retriever hanging on the wall behind the door with about 10 more leashes and collars and doggie seatbelts hanging. Just waiting to be used. Begging to be used.
Workaholic hasn’t been working full-time lately, and has been spending his days with Sam and the Fonz. So I thought nothing of it when I made a grooming appointment for Fonz and told Workaholic that it was his responsibility to drop him off and pick him up. I guess this is how it went down…
Workaholic realizes that he has exactly 20 minutes to get the girl up, feed her, change her, dress her, and get her out the door. She was going to baby school while Workaholic spent time in his company’s warehouse. Cleaning. And organizing. Which doesn’t happen very often at home. (although ironically, it did this morning!) So he is running around, much like a chicken with his head cut off, and opens the door and asks Fonz, “Wanna go for a ride in the car?” That’s all you have to say, and Fonz leaps into the car, without regard for the fact that he isn’t wearing a collar. (doesn’t he know better??) And Workaholic throws Sam in the car seat and zooms to the groomers.
As he pulls in, he realizes that shit, he has no leash. And the dog is not even wearing a collar. So he uses his CELL PHONE CHARGER to get Fonz into the building. You know, that plastic, curly-Q’d wire thingy? Just wrapped it around his neck and told him to behave. Not quite sure how many odd looks he got, but he DID realize that he wasn’t going home, and would need something to use when he picked up the dog a few hours later. So he proceeds to spend $20 on a nice, long black leather leash. Because I have a nice long BROWN leather leash, but not a black one. At least he tries not to duplicate.
When he goes to pick Fonz up a few hours later, he asks the receptionist how well-behaved Fonz was. Because, he told her, “He can get a little excited and wound up, and you can’t calm him down.” (OK, WE can, but most people just do things to get him even more excited, like talk to him IN A REALLY LOUD HIGH-PITCHED SQUEAKY VOICE LIKE HE IS A BABY. By the way…that doesn’t work.) She says, and I quote, “Well that’s quite understandable for a puppy.” HA! A puppy?? He’s 10 years old!! Workaholic just looked at her, and smiled and said, “Yes, that is understandable for a puppy, but he is 11 years old.” (OK, to be fair, he isn’t 11 yet, he will be in September. But 11 is much closer to 10 ½ than a puppy.) Needless to say, she didn’t believe him, even as he was walking out the door. Oh well. That makes me feel good. Six years of fish oil pills and glucosamine/chondroitin/MSM supplements are starting to pay off. Even if Fonz does have a pink nose and completely white face, and stained, yellow teeth.
When Fonz was younger, and I would leave him with my in-laws or my parents for a weekend or longer while we went on vacation, I got sighs and looks of “Are you insane?” when I would describe the feeding ritual to them. They laughed at me, and said that I was babying him and pampering him. They said that he was treated better than they were. But now I have this beautiful, healthy, vibrant, 10 ½ year old Golden, and they are eating their words. Ha! (We are going to ignore the fact that good genes probably play a pretty big role in all of this, I just like to be right.)