To the Other Man in My Life

Dear Dudley,

Let me start first with a commendation:  most of the time, you are a really good dog.   You always sit and wait for the “ok” before diving into your food bowl, you sleep in your own bed (most of the time), and you are extremely protective of your littlest pack member, Kenny.   You are athletic, a great running and roller-blading partner, and you are fun to walk with.   You are very well behaved at outdoor restaurants, and you are the stud of the local dog park.   You are very sweet to want to share your bones with me,  too.   I am especially touched when I get  out of bed in the morning, and  find one neatly tucked under my pillow.   You are even cooler than the toothfairy!   How do you do that without waking me up?  

But I have a few questions for you, my furry friend:

Why do you turn around 800 times before collapsing in a “humph!” on the couch at night?   Why do you lick yourself where your manhood used to be, without even taking a breath, for hours on end?   Do you think that if you lick there long enough, they will grow back?   And why do you only destroy things only when everyone’s at home?   We can leave you for hours, and the house is perfectly intact, yet in the ten minutes it takes me to fix lunch for Kenny, you have torn a hole in the dining room chair, eaten four or five legos, chewed the heel off of one of my shoes, and then when I turn around to try and catch you, you snatch the sandwich I just made off the countertop.   Even Kenny has learned to say flawlessly, “Dudley chewed up!   New one, Mama.”   Did you know that we are on his fourth t-ball set?   And his second super-set of legos?   And why do all of his stuffed animals only have one ear?   And how is it that you have chewed the left ear off of all of them, and left the right ear completely alone?  

Oh Dudley… some days I wonder if you are deaf, since you ignore my commands to “drop” or “come” with such ease, but then I know it’s all an act when you are able to hear me lift the lid off the cookie jar from three rooms away.     And how is it that you are so terrified of garbage cans being rolled out of a driveway during our walks that you cowar behind me, wrapping your leash around my legs, and yet you attack the garage door with vigor  whenever you hear it go up?

Dudley, Dudley, Dudley… I could write a country song about you, I think.  

Love, Mama