I love dogs. So does Willy. We both grew up with dogs for the better part of our childhoods and when we finally moved into our home nearly three years ago, it wasn’t long before Sarah joined us. Willy has nagged me to get another dog since. A “friend” for Sarah, he protests. I’d bring up things like lack of space and cost of vet bills. In Sarah’s first year of life she almost died from aspiration pneumonia after a botched spay, got bit a rattle snake, had an anaphylactic reaction to a bee sting twice, not to mention the non-near-death vet visits like ear infections, a possible tick bite after camping in the woods, and giardia. Multiply that by two and I don’t know that we could stomach it emotionally or financially. Lately it’s been easier to put off his request as I protest with a mere glance down at my belly and a shake of my head proclaiming, “Oh no, I’m not allowing a puppy to join this family at the same time as a newborn”.
Well this past weekend, we dog sat. Sarah has many boxer friends and one of them, Joplin, joined us for one night.
Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast. The sofa was rearranged about five feet back and at a diagonal slant and the cushions were thrown off faster than you could say “Get off the sofa!”. It was pure mayhem and it didn’t stop all. weekend. long. To make matters worse, Sunday was a downpour and poor Willy was stuck inside with Hooper and two overly playful dogs while I worked. Needless to say, after the mayhem that took over our house, the all night long whining due to separation from one another, and the five o’clock in the morning surprise jump on the bed lick fest, Willy came to a smart decision: One dog is enough. That husband o’ mine, he’s a wise one.