It must have hurt her deeply, the pain must have been excruciating and it likely set the feminist movement back decades.
My wife admitted to me she was wrong.
Let’s just take a moment to allow the impact of that statement to resonate. . . .
Yes, that is correct, my wife admitted to me — her husband — she was wrong.
I would be lying if I said I did not take even a bit of satisfaction hearing her say she was wrong. It does not happen often does it gentlemen? Perhaps once or twice in our lifetime, so when it does we must embrace it, celebrate it like a Calgary Flames’ Stanley Cup victory. They are rare moments indeed.
Earlier this year my wife mentioned she wanted to get another dog, one to keep our current mutt company when everyone was at work and school.
I responded with my typical sarcasm, believing this was an extremely poor idea.
My wife savours a clean, well organized home and a puppy means confusion, chaos and a cranky spouse.
Surprisingly, my wife and daughters ignored my misgivings — shocker — and despite my warnings they purchased a small black Scotty/chihuahua (seriously) puppy and named her Maggie Mae.
The girls in my house were giddy over the new puppy and, granted, she was cute, but I knew the horror this wee puppy was about to inflict on my household.
I am not a puppy hater, quite the opposite, but my wife and I are at the time in our lives when our children are older and our house is a quiet place of calm respite.
That is no longer the case with a puppy in the house because having a puppy is like having another baby.
They whine through the night, you have to clean up after them, you have to train them and you have to lock them in the kennel when you go out.
Dogs are much the same.
Honestly, I love puppies as much as I love babies — I have often been called a kid magnet because I love kids. However, after raising three children I have had my fill. They are wonderful to have around, but I am glad when it is time they go home.
It did not take long for Maggie Mae to make her presence felt in our home.
Perhaps it is more apt to say she left her mark.
She left it many times on the new couch in the living room, on the carpet in the foyer and, well, pretty much everywhere.
This puppy was a pee machine. I seriously don’t know where it all came from. These were not wee piddles on the floor, these were pee bodies worthy of their own geographic name. It seems she peed her body weight every five minutes.
It was so bad I resorted to wearing my shoes in the house at all times because you were guaranteed to step in Maggie’s mark somewhere.
Ahh, nothing says welcome home like stepping into a nice warm pool of dog pee.
I was adamant those responsible for bringing Maggie’s mayhem into the house should be responsible for clean-up duties.
As a result, I would simply sit at the kitchen table, “Honey! Your dog peed on the floor! Sweetie! Your dog pooped in the living room!”
Certainly, my indifference drove my wife absolutely mad, but she knew she could not argue. This was her mess and she had to clean it up.
It was entertaining for me watching all three of my girls down on their knees reprimanding Maggie in perfect unison, “No Maggie! You pee outside! You pee outside!”
Now Maggie knew exactly how I felt. “No dad! You fart outside! You fart outside!”
Knowing she trained our kids I think my wife would have stuck with Maggie, but she also realized it took her 20 years to teach the kids to flush a toilet — she was not ready to go through that again.
In addition, as Maggie grew she became more of a menace chewing on the furniture, the cupboards and she even managed to dig a hole through my deck, literally. What would she do when she was full grown? Chew through a wall?
As for our other dog Copper, it was clear he was not enjoying his new roommate. Our little furry poodle was quiet and cuddly and he was not a fan of this whirling dervish who was messing with his chi.
My wife came to the realization Maggie was too much mayhem for the Barlows’ tranquility.
Finally, her tail tucked between her legs, my wife came to me and uttered those fateful words, “Honey, don’t get mad, but I was wrong to get another dog.”
Okay, actually she texted them, but I think it still counts.
It did not take her long to find a retired couple obviously looking to spice up their lives who were eager to take Maggie.
Copper is back to his old self, the girls are fine and peaceful serenity has returned to my home.
Did I mention, my wife admitted she was wrong, which in turn, means I was right. Let me savour this just for a minute. . .
