Wilbur.
June 19, 2008
We have a dog named Wilbur. I adopted him as a single woman. I rescued him from the streets. When he’s bad, I threaten to take him back to the hood where I found him. I think he understands what I’m saying. He’s spoiled, but that’s what happens when a single woman adopts a dog. He ruled the roost.
As you can imagine, this behavior hasn’t been going over so well with my husband. There is a slight power-play going on in our house. Wilbur thinks he makes the rules; my husband thinks he’s the man of the house. It’s fun.
A few months ago, we finally banned the dogs to their own beds in our room. Previously, they had been “sneaking” into the bed with us. A 130-pound Bloodhound and a 75-pound mutt. Ridiculous. That’s like four people in a king-sized bed. My husband and me pushed to the edges, with nary a cover to keep us warm. Two spoiled hounds dead center, with covers and pillows galore.
The other night Wilbur sauntered over to my side of the bed and gently put his head on my arm. I thought he needed to go out or something, but he just kept sitting there. Eventually, I thought something was wrong with him, so I rolled over to tell my husband I was concerned. Before I opened my mouth to utter the words, Wilbur was up on the bed. Sinister little devil.
Wilbur planted himself smack dab in between us, and my husband conjured up yet another nickname for the poor mutt. “That cock blocker,” my husband exclaimed, “I was just about to put the moves on you.”
“Yeah, right,” I replied, “I’ve seen better moves at a sixth-grade dance.”
And Spade came back with another great Spade-ism, “I’ve seen better moves at an Asian massage parlor.”
Another romantic evening at the Rose household.
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