A couple of things ran through my mind as I was frantically searching for paper towel to clean up dog vomit in my bedroom this morning: Why didn’t we go to Costco on Sunday to restock? and Is it too early for a Coors Light? Our puppy had already kept me awake half of the night with diarrhea, and my husband Doo was away on business, no doubt sleeping deeply in a comfortable four-poster. A breakfast beer seemed like a good option.
Later, as I fought the urge to heave myself (it’s the smell that always gets me) and imagined various methods of torturing Doo once he returned, another thought occurred to me: Maybe this was God’s way of punishing me for not appreciating Doo. I have been kind of naggy lately, and with all the stress of work and kids and the dog, I haven’t gone out of my way to be nice to him. Basically, all I want to do when I get home each evening is eat chicken pot pie in silence, watch “Rattlesnake Nation,” and then go to sleep as soon as I can sneak away. And I’ve definitely taken Doo for granted. Instead of thanking him for doing dishes or buying crickets for the lizards, I complain about the laundry not being started or that the cat is out of litter. Admittedly, I’ve been a tad selfish, unloving and inconsiderate.
I shouldn’t be taking all of my frustration and anxiety out on Doo; after all, it’s really the dog that has turned me into a crazy lady. She’s significantly added to my already overflowing “To Do” list by being one extra “person” who needs my love and attention. In reality, I should be thanking sweet baby Jesus that I have Doo in my life to take on the majority of her care (and to keep the liquor cabinet stocked).
So, yes, I was exhausted this morning and had to sop up a hot mess in a skirt and heels, but cursing Doo with every salty sailor swear word I could think of was probably not the right approach. Luckily for my marriage, my epiphany helped me clamp down on the bitterness and channel my misery into something more productive, like a column about the misfortunes of a temporary single mother with a puking puppy.
One small victory, to be sure, but it’s a start. I believe God’s a prankster, and I’m choosing to believe that this morning’s incident was His/Her way of calling attention to how much I need my husband in my life. Doo can certainly drive me batty, but without him, I’d no doubt be a Costco groupie with a booze problem. Peace out.