Why My Third Husband Will Be A Dog (39 page)

This past holiday season, I cried almost all the way through the Charlie Brown Christmas special. The waterworks began as soon as those cartoon kids started singing. When their mouths formed those perfect little circles, I simply could not deal.

I cry at all kinds of movies. I watched
Fred Claus
on TV and cried like a baby. Who cries at a Vince Vaughn movie? Worse, in a Gift-of-the-Magi moment this past Christmas, I gave Francesca a copy of Stephen Colbert’s holiday DVD, and she gave me one, too. When we watched it later, I cried at the end, when Stephen sings about believing in God.

It’s a
comedy
videotape.

I cried when I got my new puppy, too. The breeder, a lovely woman named Tina, put him in my arms, and I exploded with
estrogen. Now I know why I have none left. It leaks out of my eyes whenever it gets the chance.

The latest example of what a crybaby I am took place when I took Mother Mary to the airport to go back to Miami. I know you’re thinking that I was crying because she was leaving, but to be completely honest with you, I’m not sure that’s the case. She’d been visiting me for a long time, and even the most devoted daughter will tell you that it’s never a hundred percent bad to put your mother on a plane outta town.

And most mothers would admit that, too.

So imagine my surprise when I started to get teary before we’d even reached the airport. I was so misty I couldn’t even find a parking space. If you’re weeping in short-term parking, do you have a problem?

Am I an estrogen junkie? A woman? Or merely Italian-American?

I managed to keep it together when we checked her in at the ticket counter and I asked for a pass to walk her to the gate. I do this because she sometimes gets confused, and you know how she feels about wheelchairs.

The same as she feels about second hearing aids.

So we had a bite to eat and I walked her to the plane, but by the time I hit the jetway, the tears were flowing like cheap wine. Mother Mary ended up comforting me.

“I’ll be alright, honey,” she said. “Hey, maybe I’ll meet somebody on the plane. You never know.”

Which only made me cry harder. Besides the fact that she had to cheer me up, I’ve had the same pathetic fantasy myself, and it’s never true. The only men you meet on the plane are married, which is the second worst thing about airplane travel, after honey pretzels.

Anyway, by the time we were at the door of the plane, I was
such a basket case that the flight attendant rushed toward me with a cocktail napkin, for me to wipe my eyes. I swear to you, this is God’s truth. Her name was Susan, and she was on flight number 1651, USAir from Philly. Susan held me close while we discussed how much we loved our parents and she told me that she used to cry when she put her father on a plane, too.

By the way, Mother Mary was fine.

She found her way to her row by herself, and another flight attendant hoisted her roller bag into the overhead. She plopped herself into her seat, clutching her wrinkled plastic bag of crossword puzzle books, her special red pens, and a magnifying glass for when she reads. I got her a better one for Christmas, a big round circle, and when she uses it, she looks like a superannuated Nancy Drew.

I gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek, then sobbed my way off the plane and back through all the people in the airport, who averted their eyes. I’ve learned that’s what most people do when you make a complete fool of yourself in public.

But there’s always a few of them who look back.

They’re the ones who can’t watch Charlie Brown, either.

Many of us pet fanatics will admit that we learn life lessons from our dogs and cats, but few will go so far as to say that their role model is a puppy.

I will.

Let me tell you the story of Little Tony, my insanely plucky black-and-tan King Charles Cavalier puppy.

If you think you’ve got problems, Little Tony’s started on his second day of life on the planet, when his mother accidentally chewed off his foreskin, along with his umbilical cord.

Thanks, Mom.

I’m told he didn’t even whimper in protest, and this I believe. Nothing gets this puppy down, even though he’s more anatomically incorrect than a Ken doll. And every time he pees, it looks like a sprinkler went off.

All over his four legs.

Now, I ask you, if every time you went to the bathroom, you had to change your pants, wouldn’t you whine? No? Now how about if you had to change your sweater, too, and then wash the floor? In short, what if, most of the time, you could pass for a rest stop on the turnpike?

Not to mention that he’s missing most of what is some men’s
favorite organ. And it was his own mother who emasculated him. It gives new meaning to the term castrating bitch.

This would cause psychological problems of major proportions in mostly anybody, or at least entitle them to a guest shot on Dr. Phil.

But Little Tony’s fine with it.

This is a dog who could be sending Medea a greeting card on Mother’s Day, yet he never whines about Mom or anything else.

In short, in all things, he’s relentlessly Cavalier.

This may sound tautological, but he’s happy because he’s happy. It’s simply an act of will, on his part. It’s not a matter of not sweating the small stuff; it’s not sweating anything at all. Ever. Now and forever. He’s just a rolling ball of good will, positive energy, and fun.

And as a result, miracles happen.

I say this because, if you recall, my dog family includes Penny and Angie, mellow golden retrievers, which is redundant, and the control freak of the canine world, Ruby The Corgi. Ruby’s not a bad dog, she’s just territorial, and her territory is the Northern Hemisphere.

If you live here, it’s only because she forbears.

Maybe because she’s a herding dog, Ruby feels the need to order the comings and goings in everyone’s daily life, and that includes mechanical objects. She barks if cell phones ring without permission. Computer printers produce major affronts. Vacuum cleaners declare war.

Because she has so much responsibility, it’s tough to be Ruby. She was on Prozac for a while, but that didn’t work. Maybe next we’ll try Pilates.

The problem is, she’s the world police, so she can never rest. She watches everything. She’s alert to every sound. She keeps
dogs, cats, and chickens in line. She’s the one who tried to bite my old golden retriever Lucy, and I got caught in the crossfire, sending me to the ER without a bra.

But that’s another story.

Bottom line, Ruby doesn’t play well with others. When daughter Francesca’s new puppy Pip entered her universe, Ruby morphed into the ultimate Mean Girl. So I knew that if I got a new puppy, I was in for dog management problems, if not the battle of the century.

But what do you think happened?

What results when endless good meets endless, well, Ruby?

I warn you, my specialty is the surprise ending.

Ruby loves Little Tony.

Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles.

From the first moment Little Tony set his tiny black paw in this house, Ruby adored him. They play together all day. They sleep together at night. They share Nylabones and tennis balls. They even share food.

They are BFFs.

I cannot explain this remarkable turn of events. It’s so sappy, it doesn’t even happen in greeting cards.

All I can do is learn from it.

Little Tony is my new guru.

And I’m never complaining about Mother Mary, ever again.

I woke up this morning with the best hot flash I ever had. This was such a good hot flash that if I smoked, I would’ve reached for a cigarette.