This week, we were about five minutes away from getting a dog. Both of our dogs have died, and this is the first spring we haven’t thawed four hundred pounds of crap in the back yard. Most of the time, we remember why we haven’t replaced them – nighttime “walks”, poop, vet bills, dog food, chewed furniture, puke of uncertain origin, giant fur tumbleweeds on the nice new hardwood floor (which doesn’t have any scratches on it yet)…

But every once in a while, one of us says, wistfully, “… we should get a dog…” Most of the time, the sane one talks the other off the ledge, but I admit to a disproportionate amount of time spent browsing Humane Society and rescue shelter websites for the perfect dog.

One day this week, a nurse I work with told us she got a new puppy. It is a Jack Russell terrier, which she got, free, from a breeder, who needed to get rid of the remnants of a litter because they were too old to sell, at 12 weeks. Not sure, but whatever. Apparently this woman also runs the pound in her small town. There were 2 more, females, free to a good home. She sent me photos. They were so cute.

A lengthy email conversation took place between Trevor and I, culminating in Trevor saying, “I give up. I can’t fight it any longer. Do what you must”. So I called.

Alas, the last puppy had just gone, and I wasn’t all that heartbroken, which proved to me that while I’m sure the puppy would have quickly become a well-loved member of the family, it may not be the perfect time. I am certain that there will be a perfect time, and the perfect dog will present itself at the right time. One day, probably not too far in the future, we will have another dog. Just not this weekend. Whatever.

Anyway, tonight, we were all in the car, and to pass the time, I asked everyone what we would name a dog if we got one. Everyone started throwing out names… Five Hole, Rover, Spot, Guy Lafleur…

Suddenly, out of the blue, from the back seat, Jack, who is seven, pipes up. “Maybe we should call him Asshole.”

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. I’m still laughing. Tears are actually streaming down my face. I told him in no uncertain terms that “asshole”as a bad word, and he should never, ever say it again. But I’m thinking… maybe we should call our new dog Asshole. I’d laugh every time I called him, and heaven knows, we could always use a little more laughter in our lives.

Asshole. It’s growing on me. So to speak.


About therapeuticrambling

I am a wife, a mom, a nurse, a writer. I enjoy laughing.
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