My Love has decided that our dog should start sleeping in our room. This could be yet another subtle plot of hers to avoid my advances. She claims otherwise.
"I want to get rid of that dog gate at the bottom of the stairs," she said.
The gate prevents Murphy, who is still in puppy adolescence at 22 months, from sneaking up to the second floor. When up there, he inevitably goes straight to one of The Things' room in search of one of their stuffed animals.
If he goes to our boy's room, he either slobbers over Greenie, a bear won at Dave & Buster's two years ago, or Mommy Beaver, a stuffed beaver a friend bought for me years ago because … well, because my nickname is "Beaver." (Not sure why our son is convinced this is a female and a mom, but never try to reason with a kindergartener set in his stuffed animal beliefs.) If Murphy heads to our girl's room, he takes his pick from among 1,604 Webkinz.
"We just need to make sure the doors upstairs are closed," I said, apparently expressing far too much husbandly confidence than I should. Suffice it to say, I was overruled.
Then, I brought up that Murphy sleeps in his crate at night. Which is locked. And in my office. Downstairs.
See where I'm coming from on the "avoid my advances" angle?
So, on Monday night, Murphy was brought upstairs from his comfy crate. He quickly jumped up on the bed, and demonstrated how happy he was to be here by using his tongue to give free facial dermabrasion. After a brief struggle, he rotated around and planted his yellow Lab rump on my pillow.
"How about a good night kiss, hun?" I asked My Love. She didn't fall for the bait.
Murphy eventually turned his 72 pounds of fur and flesh around and, thankfully, downwind. All was well, although I'm pretty sure this goes against every "Dog Whisperer" episode I've ever TiVo-ed. Forgive me, Cesar, but you are married and we both know that "pack leader" crap only works for dogs, wolves and cults.
Tuesday night, My Love suggested bringing Murphy's dog bed upstairs to see if he would sleep in it. I was going to suggest it the night before, but unlike the dog, I had learned better by now. I know, I know. I'm the one who took the dog to training, watched the videos, clicked the clicker, picked up the poop, and so on, but how am I to argue with an empowered woman's determination to do things her way? You think Bill tries to talk Hillary out of those god-awful pants suits? Hmm, let me rephrase that …
So, for the next hour, it was "Murphy, go to your spot. Go to your spot." Followed by "Muphy, dowwwwn. Dowwwwn." Followed by a lot of cussing.
Honestly, I have no problem with the dog being upstairs. Our first dog, another Lab, would start on our bed before jumping off and crawling underneath it for the night. It worked well until you dropped something and it rolled under the bed. He wouldn't eat it, but crawling under there to get it meant coming out with a two-inch layer of fuzzy yellow ex-dog on you.
Finally last night, Murphy settled on his dog bed. He jumped up only once. It was about 4 a.m. and he did it to give the wife a wake-up lick.
She then took him downstairs and let him outside to do what he needed to do.
Then, she put him in his crate, locked it and came back to bed.
"I want to get rid of that dog gate at the bottom of the stairs," she said.
The gate prevents Murphy, who is still in puppy adolescence at 22 months, from sneaking up to the second floor. When up there, he inevitably goes straight to one of The Things' room in search of one of their stuffed animals.
If he goes to our boy's room, he either slobbers over Greenie, a bear won at Dave & Buster's two years ago, or Mommy Beaver, a stuffed beaver a friend bought for me years ago because … well, because my nickname is "Beaver." (Not sure why our son is convinced this is a female and a mom, but never try to reason with a kindergartener set in his stuffed animal beliefs.) If Murphy heads to our girl's room, he takes his pick from among 1,604 Webkinz.
"We just need to make sure the doors upstairs are closed," I said, apparently expressing far too much husbandly confidence than I should. Suffice it to say, I was overruled.
Then, I brought up that Murphy sleeps in his crate at night. Which is locked. And in my office. Downstairs.
See where I'm coming from on the "avoid my advances" angle?
So, on Monday night, Murphy was brought upstairs from his comfy crate. He quickly jumped up on the bed, and demonstrated how happy he was to be here by using his tongue to give free facial dermabrasion. After a brief struggle, he rotated around and planted his yellow Lab rump on my pillow.
"How about a good night kiss, hun?" I asked My Love. She didn't fall for the bait.
Murphy eventually turned his 72 pounds of fur and flesh around and, thankfully, downwind. All was well, although I'm pretty sure this goes against every "Dog Whisperer" episode I've ever TiVo-ed. Forgive me, Cesar, but you are married and we both know that "pack leader" crap only works for dogs, wolves and cults.
Tuesday night, My Love suggested bringing Murphy's dog bed upstairs to see if he would sleep in it. I was going to suggest it the night before, but unlike the dog, I had learned better by now. I know, I know. I'm the one who took the dog to training, watched the videos, clicked the clicker, picked up the poop, and so on, but how am I to argue with an empowered woman's determination to do things her way? You think Bill tries to talk Hillary out of those god-awful pants suits? Hmm, let me rephrase that …
So, for the next hour, it was "Murphy, go to your spot. Go to your spot." Followed by "Muphy, dowwwwn. Dowwwwn." Followed by a lot of cussing.
Honestly, I have no problem with the dog being upstairs. Our first dog, another Lab, would start on our bed before jumping off and crawling underneath it for the night. It worked well until you dropped something and it rolled under the bed. He wouldn't eat it, but crawling under there to get it meant coming out with a two-inch layer of fuzzy yellow ex-dog on you.
Finally last night, Murphy settled on his dog bed. He jumped up only once. It was about 4 a.m. and he did it to give the wife a wake-up lick.
She then took him downstairs and let him outside to do what he needed to do.
Then, she put him in his crate, locked it and came back to bed.
This post is a riot.
ReplyDeleteBefore this post I had never realized how often women (like me) just reject the simplier, more efficient, less labor intensive and more effective solutions to problems.
All because we (the womens) came up with a solution first and yeah, no need for your input at that point!
SERIOUSLY!!!
Until this post it never crossed my mind!!
But, i read this post like 2 months ago and have quoted it to several guys and DANG it's true. Everyone knows this about women.
That arguing (or suggesting an alternative) is useless when it comes to solving a problem when the woman have already come up with one.
WHO KNEW??
It's crazy sauce I tell ya!
But, nowadays, i note this. when I have a problem-I will consult with my husband WHO IS AN ENGINEER AND BY DEFAULT A SKILLED PROBLEM SOLVER.
and not argue or second guess him. I just follow his solution and dang! He's right a lot! ;)
Men / Dads are problem solvers. We use the most efficent ways to solve the simplest problems. Dog stays behind locked door. Simple. My wife is the exact way your wife is. She too is in management in the corporate world. Sometimes it has to see the forest through all the estrogen. But wouldnt change it for the world.
ReplyDelete