I come from a long line of people who forget about common sense when confronted with a wet nose and wagging tail. My grandmother shared breakfast daily with her fox terrier, Snooky. Every morning MeMa dunked her donut in coffee, offered Snooky a bite, and then took a bite herself. Dunk, bite, bite, until the donut was gone.
My husband, Jeff, who had the pleasure of meeting both MeMa and Snooky, should have realized that I couldn’t remain dogless for long after our cocker spaniel died. Instead, he was surprised and furious when I committed the ultimate crime: bringing home an unauthorized puppy.
I can’t really blame him for not understanding. The problem stems from a fundamental difference between Jeff’s relatives and mine. My side of the family believes animals belong seated at the dinner table. Jeff’s family believes animals should be presented on a plate, medium rare with gravy on the side.
Our conflict began when I secretly began cruising the Frederick Humane Society the way some people cruise singles bars.
Like most women, I didn’t cruise alone. My friend, Mary, who was looking for Mr. Goodcat, accompanied me. After perusing the kitties, we rounded the corner to the doggy department and there she was, sixteen pounds of scrawny black and tan coonhound pup. Our eyes met, and I knew she could see deep into my soul.
“Look at those enormous paws -- this dog will be huge!” Mary exclaimed. “And your husband will freak,” she reminded me. But it was too late.
For those unfamiliar with the breed, a black and tan coonhound is a large, energetic, floppy-eared dog used for hunting raccoons, deer and bear. Picture Mickey Mouse’s dog, Pluto, sporting a Doberman’s paint scheme. A sensible suburbanite would have left the building immediately, dog-free, but as I’ve mentioned, I am not a sensible person.
“Jeff will fall in love as soon as he sees her,” I assured myself as I completed the adoption papers. If Jeff needed additional convincing, I theorized that a little bonus time in the marital bed would cure him.
The reality was somewhat different. Enraged, Jeff refused to even look at Sunny. He saw through my feminine ploys and stoically slept on the couch. Luckily, we love each other quite a bit, and four years later, he has almost reached the point of forgiving me for my transgression.
Despite her father’s antagonism, Sunny has grown into a good-natured 75-pound dog who loves everyone. At our house, burglars and escaped convicts would be greeted with the same joyous celebration as the president of MilkBone International.
I’ll admit I didn’t like Sunny much when she deposited a steamy, fragrant load in the back seat of my Honda Civic, or after she rolled in a rotting rabbit carcass. But overall, I’m looking forward to growing old with both Sunny and Jeff. And I’d share a donut with either one of them.
This column was originally published in the Frederick Gazette. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
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