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May 11th 2008

Him & Her:
The Dog Days of Domestic Life. Woof!
by Nancy and Dan Sapir

HE SAYS: I’ll come home tired and hungry, spot some food cooking on the stove only to find out it’s something hot for the dogs. The woman has her priorities confused; a man comes first, not man’s best friend. I think she should drop everything when I arrive, slide a meal in front of me, ask how my day went, place the day’s newspaper beside me and otherwise adore me. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be? Isn’t that why guys get married?

One of the dogs is a 100 pound Doberman and the other a 14 pound Italian Greyhound. The Greyhound was a "gift" from our oldest daughter who pleaded, as a matter of life and sanity, for us to take him. "He doesn’t seem to be a good match for us" she lamented. It didn’t take long to understand the nature of her burden. That was two years ago.

The little beast has terrorized our Dobie and laid claim to our bed, where he sleeps with us nightly… head on pillow with those spindly little legs shoved into your back. More then once I’ve leaned over and planted a kiss on the cold nose lying beside me; more often then not I’m talking about the greyhound. That’s downright humiliating.

I have socks that need mending and she crochets clothes for the pedigreed home buster instead. He thanks her by lifting a leg, which should throw her into a rage. She says he needs tender loving care. So do I. Maybe I’d do better by messing the kitchen floor, I could use a little attention myself. She’ll call me at the office to inform me that the dogs are out of food. She insists that I not buy a generic brand but rather the stuff with real beef gravy and cheese bits. Add to that a dozen soup bones for their chewing pleasure and some Pupperoni for rewards. I ask her what we’re going to eat and she thanks me for reminding her that we’re out of DiGiorno frozen pizza. There are times I swear those dogs eat better then I do. The Snausages are beginning to look good. I think the Doberman senses this and now growls at me every time I pick up the package.

I think I’ll go down to the Town Hall and apply for a dog tag. Perhaps if I’m registered I may be in a better position to vie for her attention. When I joked with her about doing it she chided me about never qualifying for AKC registration papers. Don’t talk to me about papers. They occupy half the kitchen floor. Mario, ever the one for making bold statements, always finds the other half. With any other dog this would constitute a mathematical improbability. If I speak harshly to the little critter you would think I condemned him to a laboratory. She picks up his bony little frame and starts kissing and cuddling him all the while cooing, "What nasty things is Daddy saying to my little boy?" Our grown children should hear that, they’d think she went daft. It’s amazing how people talk to their dogs like they’re our kids. That little twerp just sucks up the attention and stares at me with a smug little look from those bulging, beady little eyes. Even the Doberman just walks away in disgust.

When the greyhound doesn’t get enough attention, he knocks over the water bowl. This is starting to happen with great regularity and she’s going to have to begin dealing with this problem before it starts having an effect on our metered water rates. Even the Dobie is showing signs of stress. She begs to be let out, even during sub freezing temperatures, and languishes in her solitude for hours; anything to escape the runt.

None of this has an effect on her. "If we didn’t take this skinny little bundle of legs could you think of anyone else who would?" she challenges. She’s certainly got me on that one. My advice to my male brethren is to hold out for goldfish instead of dogs; lower maintenance, shorter life span.

HER: If he didn’t talk, and finished up all the leftovers, I’d cook for him, too.

The man is jealous of a little dog who just needs a little extra love to correct his heinous and annoying habits which I will not discuss here because it’s too embarrassing.

I like to focus on his qualities which include his uninhibited and ceaseless showing of affection, the way he instinctively knows when I’m feeling blue and cuddles up to me and does not shout over and over, "Get over it!"

He’s great to watch TV with because he seems to like all my shows. He does not walk into the room and turn off the Lifetime Women’s Network during the last five minutes of the movie. Now, obviously he can’t read, but neither does he attempt to interfere with my simple enjoyment of a book. He doesn’t ask me how much oil we have in the tank or what’s for dinner two weeks from now when I’m focused on one of my favorite authors.

In the summer when I’m gardening, he conducts snake-outs and barks whenever he sees one of those slimy looking things. He does not pick up the offending reptiles, run toward me shaking one and shouting gleefully, "Hey, lookee here!"

He cleans the floor after parties. And after dinner. After snacks. And when my sister-in-law sent us a gift ham that the UPS man left in the mudroom when I wasn’t looking, but hell, anybody can make a mistake. I’m sure he thought it was a bomb and that he was saving us from it. So he’s brave and fearless to boot.

Admittedly, he is bony and his eyes bug out, but on him it looks good. He’s fearless, and he has attitude, and I admire him for it. He doesn’t let big dogs push him around. He gets that from his human father, but his sensitivity is derived from other sources.

The only reason he complains about this precious little guy is because when he’s in the dog house, life isn’t so good.

by Nancy and Dan Sapir