A Silly Disagreement About Dogs
But a common love of Teddy (and dogs, too, it turns out)
Who doesn’t love a good fight?
Some are just worth having, and we know it when they happen.
I argued we needed new sofas because the old ones were not just ragged looking but uncomfortable.
My husband argued we needed a budget because to live otherwise would be irresponsible.
I argued we needed a new Brita because our old one showed mold.
He argued we could clean it and make it mold-free.
I got a new Brita, and he scrubbed the old one clean, so we have a spare.
In all these instances, we were right. This brings to mind our favorite line that we occasionally say to each other, and when we do, it always brings a smile.
“You were right, and I was wrong.”
This is actually better than “I love you.”
Now comes the silly fight. We have a wonderful dog named Teddy, whose photo leads this story.
Teddy is six and one-half years old. The fact that I added the “one-half” tells you all you need to know. We are very connected and measured with a dog that I suspect will be our last canine love.
Now comes the fight.
Him: Teddy can’t possibly be our last. Remember how lonely our house felt when we arrived home a day before getting him from Pam (where we boarded him)?
Me: Yes, but we are 67, and it will be getting harder for us to do all the requisite walks and training.
Him: Okay. We can just watch each other get old… not!
On this, he had a point. Every morning, at 7 AM, we are in the park chucking the ball. We see people. We get in our steps. We feel the love and happiness of a dog who was born to run.
Me: Now, I’m stuck because I see your point. But I’m not yet at the point where I say, “You were right, and I was wrong.”
This caused us to laugh. It also probably caused my husband to hope that those precious words were coming soon.
Him: How about this? We will get a smaller dog. I mean, Teddy, at 62 pounds, is a lot of dog for us. I kinda see your argument — which is what we’re clearly having. But we can downsize to a 30-pound dog — or even smaller if you need.
And that’s how we left this “argument”— not quite achieving consensus, but with an idea of a potential compromise. In the meantime, we are hoping that we are only mid-life with Teddy and that we still have years to figure this out.
What made me think of starting this silly disagreement? The other day, Teddy had a small limp when we left the park, and I wondered whether his joints were talking to him. It turned out to be a small pebble nestled in his paw that we removed, so it wasn’t his joints yet… but it will be.
“See him limp?” I said. “Steve, let’s enjoy this dog because it could be our last.”
It’s not always easy, but we are determined to enjoy all that a dog like Teddy entails.
He needs his daily run. That’s easy until the snow and ice arrive.
He is scared of the smallest dog (think “Maltese”) to the largest dog (think “Bernadoodle,” of which there are three on our block). We stay on our toes and remind him, “It’s Okay. There is no need to bark. That dog won’t hurt you.” All he hears is “treat,” as in, “They’ll give me a treat if I don’t bark.”
He is right, too.
You see, he has trained us perfectly.
Oh, for the love of dogs, we have become putty in their hands — I mean paws. We’ll do about anything for them — even have a silly but good fight in their name and honor.
Can anyone identify with this argument?
My husband and I had a similar conversation not long ago resulting in our new moyen poodle puppy (who weighs 30+ pounds) joining our 8 pound -17 yr old Chihuahua. Just can't do life without our dogs.
My best friend and I had a similar disagreement in a Petsmart one day. You see we adopted two beautiful Australian Shepherds. They were part of a trio. My best friend said , "We have to adopt him too. We can't leave him all by himself."
Me: "Dolly, look at the size of our new charges now. Now, look at the size of his paws. They are huge. We don't have a big house. We must leave him."
Our dogs were the best. We had gone times with them. Unfortunately, we had to put them both down because of cancer. Blue was mine, and Bruno was her dog. I miss them, but Gypsy helps feel the hole in my heart.