I have turned into the person my husband refers to as “the crazy puppy lady.” It all started out with a benign visit to re-stock the birdfeeders one morning. Minding my own business pouring seeds, I saw something running into the yard. I turned just in time to see the most precious pooch galloping my way.
Reminiscent of a cheesy, romance movie, we both rushed toward each other, my arms outstretched, his ears flapping, tongue wagging. With starstruck eyes and a goofy grin, I rescued his shivering body from the snow.
My voice was high-pitched as I couldn’t help but lament, “He’s so cute!” The dainty bundle had become mine in a matter of seconds. “Is he yours?” I asked my neighbor jealously. “Actually,” he responded, “he’s my daughter’s and we’re looking for a new home for him. We can’t keep him.”
I got right to the point and arranged a time later that night for my husband to fall in love with Nacho, the most charming Chihuahua. I already had been working on David for weeks, touting the supreme benefits of dog ownership. Was it my fault the perfect puppy magically appeared in my arms? It had divine intervention written all over it.
First I emailed hubby at work. Twice. “You won’t believe what just happened…” I typed feverishly. David called back, unfortunately not as keen on the idea as I had hoped. “We have five kids, Laura.” As if I needed reminding. “This is not the right time for a puppy. We have enough chaos.”
My heart sank and I couldn’t help but pout like a 3-year-old denied candy.
Later that evening, I walked to the neighbors’ to give them the bad news: I would not be Nacho’s doting mommy. I sullenly trudged across the yard through the snow. After stepping into the entryway to tell the owner our answer, the little munchkin once again ended up in my arms like a magnet.
I asked more questions about his health, age, origin, etc. I secretly was stalling, hoping for a few more cuddles. I came clean, “It’s my husband that I need to convince. I’m working on him.” Yes, I went over to say no. No, I couldn’t bring myself to utter the word. I was still in hot pursuit. I took her phone number and told her I’d post his pictures on Facebook in case anyone else (gasp) wanted the fuzzy bundle of joy.
Needless to say, the conversation at home was closed, kaput. Much pouting ensued.
I am quick to admit that I have failed to act my age. My grown-up brain understands we have to agree on any new addition to our already full home.
I blame my mini-obsession on the many rounds of babies that caused me to adapt to sweet snuggles from a tiny body. It’s really not my fault.
Since there are no babies in my future-and to be true to my nickname-I’m taking suggestions.
