Saturday Showcase

My husband is awesome.  No he hasn't done anything special lately to deserve that statement, and no, I don't have an agenda.  Like a man who loves a woman not only because she's willing to cook, but she cooks well, I love this man because, not only can he fix things, but he does them better (in most cases) than a pro ever would.  His mind is like a machine in that he can break things down, understand the mechanics, come up with a plan, and then fix it, correctly. Awe-inspiring, really. OK, well, there was that time that.....

Me, on the other hand, I'm more of a big picture kind of gal who can't be bothered with the details.  I do a brilliant job at coming up with ideas for him to solve, of which I'm very excited to bring to the table, and he either joins in my excitement, or gives me a look of utter disgust. Most of the time it's disgust, which is why I call him Mr. Pisser. Not that I have anything to do with it. Nope.

Which brings me to how we brought home a dog. 

I'd wanted a dog for a year and, throughout the course of that year, Mr. Pisser gave oft reminders of how difficult it would be to raise a dog.  "There's going to be poop all over the place".  "It's going to cost us a fortune".  "You'll love it the first month and then you'll be over it".  "What if it's an evil dog?"  "There will be hair all the place".  You know, the typical buzz-kill comments from people who just can't deal with dogs.

I didn't press the issue, as I've long-learned that would be counter-productive with Mr. Pisser.  But I would occassionally, sweetly remind him that I really needed a dog.

My husband had never owned a new car until just before his 40th birthday.  He stood on principle due to the fact that cars lose as much value as they do the second they're driven off the lot, but then Ford changed everything for the better with the F150, and he really needed that truck.  So I agreed that he should have that truck, on one condition.  He gets the truck (along with its new monthly invoice); I get a dog.

So I got a dog. My Dog. Contrary to all the negative mechanical problems that Mr. Pisser pointed out, he hasn't had to "fix" a thing.  It took a while for Mr. Pisser to come around.  For example, at bedtime My Dog would come up on the bed for a few snuggles, and then Mr. Pisser would quickly direct him to his crate, sometimes a little too eagerly for my taste.  But because he's My Dog, which makes him cool, he would listen to Mr. Pisser and go straight to bed.  My Dog would pick himself up, walk to his crate, curl up in a ball, and stay there all night with the door still wide open.  Over time, My Dog was permitted to stay in the bed longer and longer, curling up by his Daddy, being well-pampered and comforted, looking as if he were of Mr. Pisser's own flesh and blood. 

Some people say you can judge a man by how he treats his mother.  I say you can also judge him by how he treats His Dog.  And it is, indeed, His Dog, too.

Meet Tango: