Don't Blame the Dog

When my husband gets sick, he goes down for the count. It always seems different for men than women. The ritual is always the same. I hear, “I’m sick,” and then he disappears for a couple of days. (Really!? What woman has this luxury?)

In his defense, he doesn’t get sick very often, but when he does the world stops revolving.

My son-in-law told his wife, “Men get sick worse than women, and that’s why they become such babies. If a woman got “man flu”, she would die.”

My response, “Yeah — NOPE!”

Anyway —

Randy laid down on the couch to watch golf — with his eyes closed. To be honest, I usually watch golf with my eyes closed, but this behavior was new for him.

I started to pick up the clutter, moving quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping dead until I noticed the blob under what we affectionately call “the sick blanket” was gone. Thinking at first the body had disintegrated, I peeked underneath to reaffirm my first thought, then discovered he had actually moved.

Randy’s disembodied form laid curled on the bed, buried under pillows and blankets. Dagney laid beside him.

My cleaning accelerated now that I could move freely. Storing the blanket and pillows out of sight, I mentally acknowledged the need to wash them when this episode was over but knew from experience.

With a clean Kleenex, the contaminated tissues were picked up and disposed of to protect me from the germs. The coffee cup and orange juice glass found a home in the dishwasher; the Fresca can retire to the recycling bin, the Kindle hidden in the sectional’s console. When the room no longer resembled a hospital room, I sat down to read a book.

As I reclined in the corner of the sectional reading, Dagney, our two-year-old Yorkie, appeared to share my peanuts. I love them raw, unsalted and from the shell. A pattern followed: I ate three whole peanuts, she got half of one. As long as I didn’t become engrossed in the novel, she waited somewhat patiently for her next treat.

Eating peanuts in our home is a big deal as it drives my OCD husband crazy. He can’t stand the bits of husks and shells that float in the air and litter the area.

I experienced a bit of heaven: book, dog, peanuts. However, let it be known a vacuum removed all evidence from the crime scene to prevent Randy from complaining later. I have learned little things keep couples harmonious, and a living room free of peanut residue provides peace in our home.

I digress. When the blob emerged from the bedroom several hours later, he started digging through couch cushions. “Where did you put my hearing aids?” Notice the emphasis on “you” — like I intentionally hid something so necessary to our communication, our relationship.

Anyway, the implied accusation that I had done something with his hearing aids not only interrupted my reading, eating and cuddling but ruffled my feathers. Calmly, I asked where he had left them. His response forced me to clean the hand-held vacuum (the one I had used to clean up after the peanuts) because apparently, earlier in the day he had left them in the cup holder of the couch. When the contents of the vacuum revealed nothing other than dust, hair, and peanut shells we moved on.

We found no hearing aids between the cushions, under the couch, on the bedside table or any other probable place.

So, I started crawling around on the floor and shined the flashlight from my phone into all the dark crevices. Dagney, determined to participate in this game, chased and pounced on the beam as I searched. Yep, the reality dawned on us both, at the same time.

After an hour of searching the backyard, we had gathered a doll, a key chain, several other toys belonging to the grandkids and two hearing aids.

I found it humorous. Randy wasn’t laughing.

In fact, in an accusatory tone, he explained how he had carefully placed his Kindle on top of the cup holder to keep the kids safe from the dog. He insinuated that my cleaning instigated the dog thievery thereby suggesting the loss was my fault.

Not Dagney’s for absconding them, not his for not placing them in the metal box designed for protection. Mine. According to his logic, if the Kindle remained as a cover for his hiding place, the aids would not have been exposed.

I ignored his first accusation. (The fever probably was affecting his mind — because he had lost it!)

The second suggestion earned him “The Look.” By the third snide remark, I reminded him of my aversion to house cleaning and if he ever wanted to see a vacuum in my hands again to be very, very careful.

He went back to bed but only after securing the hearing aids in the box on the nightstand.

As I sat down to read some more, I thought about our marriage vows, “. . . in sickness and in health.” We are in this life until the end — unless I kill him first!

Besides, who would get the dog if we split up?

Click below for another story by this author.

Never Underestimate the Healing Powers of a Dog

Reasons to Adopt a Huge Dog

Stories about Dagney and her friends are available *FREE* at I AM My Best! - because we are all our best with a dog.