Dog is Man’s Best Friend? This quote is the source of some arguing.
My husband, Mike, and I work from home, which give us a lot of quality time together.
A lot of quality time.
A whole lot of quality…
Not sure if Gordon sleeping on Mike’s face is a good sign or bad sign for if dog is man’s best friend.
OK, fine. We argue. Actually, we bicker. We bicker over trivial things because we can’t get out of each other’s way. For instance, he’d like to know why I have four glasses of water on my bedside table, filled to various depths. Do I think I’m going to wake up in the middle of the night desperate to play a few Christmas carols on a glass xylophone?
I want to know why he can’t finish everything on his plate. Why does he always leave 1/4 of a sandwich? Does he think he has to leave a little food on the plate so it can spawn the next meal? He knows that isn’t how food works, right?
But the thing we bicker the most about is our dog, Gordon the Labradoodle. Who loves him more?
Dog is man’s best friend? Not on my watch.
If Gordon coughs or licks or makes any sort of strange breathing noise in the middle of the night, we start a battle as to why.
“He’s going to throw up,” says Mike.
“No, that’s just his throat clearing noise,” I say. “He’s fine.” Granted, this may be more wishful thinking than science.
“Is there a towel nearby?” mumbles Mike, pretending he’s too asleep to find one himself. Daniel Day-Lewis should be glad Mike wasn’t nominated for the Oscar this year.
“Probably, but he’s fine.”
I try and go back to sleep, only to hear Gordon’s tell-tale *hoomph* *hoomph* *hoomph* barf noise begin at the foot of the bed.
“He’s throwing up! YES! I TOLD YOU!” Mike announces triumphantly as I lunge for a towel to catch the vomit before it hits the comforter.
“Mommy would never get that excited about you throwing up,” I whisper to the dog as I wipe off his mouth, proving to him I love him more.
If dog is man’s best friend, maybe his best friend could catch the vomit once in a while.
In the morning, tired and cranky, we bicker about why the dog is staring at us.
“He has to go out,” says Mike.
“He was just out,” I say. “He’s bored. He wants to play.”
“I don’t think he pooped,” says Mike. “He has to go out.”
If Mike and I were on Family Feud and the topic was “Things Amy and Mike Talk About” ….Survey SAYS!
As Mike grills me to remember the last time the dog went to the bathroom, Gordon trots off and returns with his favorite ball in his mouth.
“YES! In your face!” I’ll say, doing my most obnoxious victory dance. “He wants to play. I know my dog better than you.”
“Right,” Mike says, brushing off his defeat. “Not even close.”
When it comes to our furry baby, the one thing Mike and I agree upon is that we don’t know what we’ll do without him. Gordon’s eyes are starting to get that old-dog cloudiness. He’s eight now, and we’re starting to get more nervous every year.
“I don’t know what I’ll do when he dies,” says Mike as we share some wine on the sofa. “I’ll probably just die, too.”
“Me too,” I say, petting the furry old man on my lap. Gordon. Not Mike.
“You’ll be fine. I love him more than you,” says Mike. “It’s over for me when he goes.”
I snort in disagreement. “You do not love him more than me.”
“Yes I do.”
“No you don’t.”
We look at Gordon with tearing eyes. We sigh. We stop bickering.
The dog gets uncomfortable with the melodramatic, wine-induced love-fest, gets up and stand by the door. He lets loose a huffy little bark.
“He has to poop,” says Mike, wiping his eyes with a strong, manly gesture.
“No, he wants to get the paper,” I say, because I know Gordon, and he loves me more.
Dog is Man’s Best Friend?
My ass.
