Without doubt, I am an awful mix of crazy and stupid today. Stupidity comes with being human – not much I can do about that, but the crazy part – I should probably work on suppressing. Unless suppression is a symptom of my craziness, and I think it might be.
As I write, it is two days before my bride’s birthday. Her birthday wish? A puppy. Not just any puppy, but a pug puppy. Not just any pug puppy, but a relatively rare black pug puppy. Black pugs are somewhat hard to come by; perhaps one in a dozen classified ads will feature one, but most rare is the elusive female black pug puppy. You’ll have an easier time finding listed a vintage “Back To The Future” Delorean, complete with functional flux capacitor than you will a black female pug puppy.
The XY/black chromosomal mix must be the ultimate in recessive gene combinations. Rarity of her choicest gift is the primary obstacle in my wife’s birthday quest. The second lies in me. I am highly resistant to adding another warm blooded body to our already chaotic household. Aside from our rambunctious human boys, we already own two little flat-faced furballs; I don’t need a third one making messes everywhere, attracting more stress to my already fragile state of mind.
So, it probably goes without saying – because I am writing this after all – that I have stumbled into a prospective female-black-pug-birthday-gift for my lovely wife. Yes, it is true; I have. As I write this entry, to be posted on her birthday, I sit in my favorite watering hole, laying out the tale of female-black-pug-birthday-gift aquisition, 2012.
It is 7:41am, Friday morning. I have requested a personal day from work, and I am to meet the prospective puppy around 1pm, which means I don’t have long to complete this writing. “Why Luke!” you say. “That’s not for more than four hours! You have tons of time!”
Right you are, but recall the information I conveyed earlier: black female pug puppies = rare. You hardly ever find them. When you do, you’re gonna drive, FAR.
I am gearing up for a trip to Stevenson, WA to meet a man about a dog. If you’re not familiar with Stevenson it’s because you have some iota of a life. It’s a speck on the butt end of the state of Washington. It’s so ‘out there’, that there are very few entry roads to get to it. I’ll actually have to cross the river into Oregon, hug the state line for 40 miles East, then re-enter Washington, crossing the “Bridge of the Gods” to enter a town that makes “Doc Hollywood’s” Grady look like a metropolis. (That’s my second reference to a Michael J Fox film. Is the universe trying to say something?)
So, given my reservations over adding another pet to our domestic mix, why am I doing this? You don’t care? Too bad, I’m going to tell you anyway. Firstly, I am making this cataclysmic decision so I may write about it. WHAT?!
Yes, I am that sick. When I first considered whether I would actually make this trip, there were two considerations that came to mind: what I am doing right now – writing, was one of those. The mere thought of sitting in this exact spot, (yes, I envisioned myself in the very chair I’m currently occupying) and scripting this tale – it was too delicious a prospect to pass on. Writing stories has become to me a thin channel into the vast ocean of paradise, a brief refuge in the eternal, and I needed it today.
I mentioned two things on my mind. The other…it is her. I am tantalized beyond imagination over her inevitable reaction when I bring home the little bundle of furry joy. She’s going to freak. And don’t think I’m under the impression I’ll score points over this. We’ve been married eleven years. Points scoring is over. She’ll still become wildly irritated next time I’m late coming home or I’m dismissive of her thoughts or any of the other actions or non-actions that my brutish insensitivity moves me toward, and I won’t be able to point to the floor and say, “But, the puppy!”
No, what I am doing today is simply for her. Because I love her. Will I regret this? Hell, yes. But regret is going to wait a little while – probably till tonight, when the puppy will keep me up all hours, crying lonely, as puppies do. Oh God help me.
To my Ms. Christmas:
I don’t have to tell you that you didn’t marry a romantic fellow. I don’t have a history of lavish party arrangements or imaginative birthday gifts. (Didn’t I bring home a ‘Hot Wheels’ cake for your birthday once?) Well, today I am doing what I do, for whatever it’s worth – a little bit of crazy and a whole lot of stupid.
I can’t wait to surprise you. You’re gonna freak.
I love you.
Categories: life events