Isn’t that just like a man!

I said to my Sweet Al, “I was complaining about your dog to Lin and Jerry, today.”

He pouted, “I hope you didn’t say anything bad about her. I love her. She’s awfully faithful. She comes into the bedroom and lays down at my feet.”

I know. That’s the problem. She’s a country dog, she rolls in the dirt, and then she runs into our bedroom and rolls around on my pink carpet. And I’m tired of it.

“What did they say when you complained about my dog?”

Jerry said, “I shouldn’t have pink carpet,” and Lin said, “Isn’t that just like a man.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way. Maybe there’s something to this. Whiskey’s a sweet dog, but the problem is, it’s my Sweet Al. He has ruined Whiskey. She doesn’t know how to behave.

I open the door to go outside. I tangle with her as she rushes in and I’m yelling, Out! Out! Out!  She speeds by me, and hides in the house. No matter how much I call, she won’t come to me. When I find her, she locks her feet on the floor and I have to pull this big dog outside.

I have a feeling when I’m not around she’s making herself at home. She helps herself to the food in the kitchen, to the trash, and is probably sleeping next to Al in our bed.

I’ve seen evidence of her on my beautiful antique chair. When I wasn’t home, Al took a picture of her and staged her on my cranberry parlor chair. He keeps this photo in his billfold and shows off his dog to everyone. He laughs and says to them in front of me, “My wife doesn’t know I had Whiskey on her best chair. Look how cute she is.”

I’m smiling on the outside, but on the inside, I’m thinking, He’ll think how cute she is. Those two are about to lose their happy home.

My friend came to visit me in her new black Lexus. Whiskey jumped up on her car and scratched it. I couldn’t apologize enough. It’s not Whiskey’s fault, she doesn’t know any better. When Al drives into the driveway, he stops the car, rolls down the window ands talks baby talk to her. She jumps up on the car and looks at him through the driver’s window.

I told him, you’ve got to train your dog, she’s out of hand. She jumps up on everyone’s car and she jumps on me.

He says, “She’s just happy to see you.”

I said, “She needs to find something else that makes her happy.”

Whiskey’s been to obedient school. She stayed an extra month for good measure. She came home and Al forgot the signals, so he just loved on her. She’s my biggest complaint. My friends tell me how to train her. It doesn’t do any good. Al breaks all the rules I set.

I’ve already served notice on Al. If anything happens to him, his dog is going. I’ve surveyed the likelihood of new homes for her. The neighbors love Whiskey and that’s the first place I’ll look. Our daughter loves her, too, and that will be Plan B.

My Sweet Al can’t believe I would talk about his dog this way. They are inseparable. Where Al is, so is Whiskey. Do I deny this poor man his best friend and his awfully faithful dog? Yes, In a New York minute!

Final Brushstroke: In the lyrics “In a New York Minute,” Don Henley pens, “You better take a fool’s advice and take care of your own. ‘Cause one day they’re here, next day they’re gone.” Maybe I should just let Al enjoy his dog, quit nagging him, and buy myself new pink carpet when Whiskey’s gone.