A DOG IS BETTER THAN A HUSBAND

1.
“A dog is better than a husband,” the rescue lady says to me. “Did you know that?” 

2.
What? Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute. Where did that come from? Where? This isn’t some kind of weird therapy session. This is PetSmart, for God’s sake! And it’s Saturday. Adoption Day. I’ve driven from Fort Worth to Dallas to look at a little homeless Chihuahua. The one featured on Facebook last week. The one this woman tells me is no longer available. Bummer! I really wanted to see it. But that’s okay. I’m just a looker today. Just here to look. That’s all. Not to adopt. No. Just looking. Today. A looker. That’s me. Nothing more. 

3.
And yet, and yet. That didn’t stop this dog rescue lady from lifting another Chihuahua from his crate and handing him to me. Before I could protest. Before I could stop her. How could she do that to me? She knows I’m just a looker. She does. She knows. It’s true. I’m just looking. I am. A looker. That’s me. Today. Nothing more. And yet, and yet. Now there’s a dog in my arms. A dog! And not just any dog. This dog. The dog she tells me nobody wants because he’s not a puppy. Because he’s eight-years-old. Walter. That’s his name. Yes, it’s sad. So sad. To be unwanted. Abandoned. Yes. I know. How it feels. I do. So sad. But he’s the wrong dog for me. He is. All wrong. He’s brown and black (not the color I want). And six pounds (not the weight I want). And a boy (not the sex I want). No, he’s not my dog. Not this one. No. Not at all.    

4.
“Excuse me?” I say. Maybe I misunderstood what she said. About dogs and husbands. Surely. Surely I did. The rescue lady looks down at Walter and laughs. He’s snoring. In my arms. Fast asleep. What? When did that happen? “It’s true,” she says. “Dogs are more consistent with their affection. They’re not moody. Or manipulative. Or perfectionists. Or worriers. Or egomaniacs. Or judgmental. Dogs will never abandon you. They just love you. All the time. That’s what they do. And they’re excellent listeners.” She winks at me. “How many men can you say that about?” 

5.
Oh, geez. Sounds like the story of my life. How did she know? Moody, self-absorbed men. Too many of them. In my past. Nothing but trouble. Like my ex-husband, Earl. The hypochondriac. I divorced him six months ago. Best decision I’ve made in years. Good riddance, I say. Never had anxiety until I married Earl. Or panic attacks. Didn’t even know what they were. But I do now. Thanks to seven years of marriage. Should have divorced Earl years ago. Why didn’t I? Why, why, why? My girlfriends say it’s my heart. It’s too big. Too soft. They think it’s a curse. In Earl’s case, it was. But no more. I’m done with men like that. All of them. Selfish, manipulative, worriers. Done. With. Them. 

6.
“Did you see this?” the rescue lady says, pointing to the information sheet attached to Walter’s crate. “All our older dogs like Walter are half price today. And he’s such a good dog. No trouble at all.”

7.
An hour later the Dallas skyline fades from my rearview mirror on the drive back to Fort Worth. I did it. Finally. I escaped. From PetSmart. And the rescue lady. Hallelujah! But my checking account is three hundred dollars lighter. And there’s a big shopping bag from PetSmart in my backseat. And a new pet carrier in the trunk. And there’s Walter. In the passenger seat. Wrapped in a blanket. Cozy in his new dog bed. Chewing on a bully stick. Happily. Peacefully. As if we’ve been together for years. 

8.
“Tell me this,” I say to Walter. “Is a dog really better than a husband?” I turn off the highway onto the exit ramp leading to Fort Worth. Walter drops his bully stick and climbs into my lap. Gently. Calmly. Like he’s been doing it for years. He rests his head on my arm and looks up at me. “Should I take that as a Yes?” I say. “Okay then. Good to know.”