And Oscar Makes Six
In six short days, our hairy little dog has imprinted himself onto our hearts.
My husband, who never had pets growing up, the same man who remains a conscientious objector to the walking of Oscar because getting a dog “wasn’t his idea,” just agreed to spend $700 to have a tumor removed and biopsied from the dog’s belly. What’s more, he needed no convincing. I spent twenty minutes in the car mentally rehearsing the speech I was going to give him for naught. I had my arguments lined up and was working on how we’d find a way to pay the vet bills. Didn’t even need to take those guns out of their holsters. He was on my side right from the start.
This shaggy, smelly, loaf of bread on four legs is family now. We’re all carrying plastic bags in our coat pockets in order to pick up his unexpected poop. We shift over on the couch, the same couch my husband said would be “off limits” to the dog, in order to make room for Oscar each evening. We use creepy, high-pitched voices to talk to him, without irony or self-consciousness. We’re splitting pills and hiding them in peanut butter, because of course he’s got a few other medical issues on top of this sinister tumor. We’re changing his water, fluffing his bed, cooing to him, and bathing him even though it does no good and he still stinks. We’re chuckling when he ignores his toys and chews instead, on our slippers. We know it’s cliche, and we don’t care.
We are officially a dog family. Thanks for coming, Oscar.