The Doom Is Come Upon Me

Said the Lady of Suzy*.

It’s a beautiful summer morning. Sunny, breezy, perfect. Rita and I are walking to the park, when, WHAM! It’s her Actual Owner. He says he wants to take her back. I am horrified and too surprised to be polite. To the point where he says he’ll call me later.

He does, and my lack of enthusiasm for giving him back his dog is obvious, even over the phone. He finally admits that he has not yet discussed adding Rita to the menage of two small children with his fiancee, whose children they are. I suggest, as nicely as I can, that he damn well does before wrenching Rita away from me. Many mothers would not care to expose their babies to a German Shepherd who has not been around kids much and who is used to being the center of attention. Not to mention her lack of enthusiasm for relinquishing the ball. The potential for problems seems pretty big.

Really, his fear of confrontation is world-class. Can’t talk to his woman, can’t talk to his unpaid dog caretaker. Just lacking in girl skills? I’m thinking yes, since Rita was the only one in his life for 10 years. Excusable? No. If he’s going to be a husband and father, he needs to get over himself. Soon.

Fortunately, the lapse between the park encounter and the phone call was long enough for me to stop weeping at the prospect of a Rita-less life, get mad, and start doing some research to back up my belief that Rita and I are meant for each other and that we are both too old for toddlers on a daily basis. Visitors are welcome (especially Mike & Jennifer’s). I’m determined to fight for her.

Who knew the fun part of the day would be mailing in a request for a certified copy of my marriage license, so I can get the divorce going? That seems to be a sad comment on the state of my existence.

*With apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson. And for those of you about to point this out, I know I’m no lady.