Seven Days of Gaga

“Happiness is a warm puppy.” ~Charles M. Schulz

Day 1:

As Empty Nesters, my husband, Babe brought home an adorable puppy. I didn't think I would ever be able to own a dog because of my allergies, but Babe assured me it would be okay. I'm glad I listened to him. I haven’t sneezed, coughed or swelled to the size of an NFL linebacker in the twenty-four hours since puppykins came to live with us.

Day 2:

I could put that precious little face in my mouth and eat her up. What a doll baby. Because she's such a perfect little dog, we were in a quandary trying to decide on which name would suit her best. I suggested Lady Gaga, but my husband said, “No. It should be Lady Godiva in case she gets on her high horse and splits.” I won that argument because I believe when you give something a name it acts accordingly. My dog will have more going for her than if she were associated with an upscale Hershey Bar on a white horse.

Day 3:

Lady Gaga has taken a shine to my antique oriental rug, the one my grandmother, God rest her soul, left me when she died. The upside is our precious puppy-poo, like Granny, has excellent taste. The downside is she finds it necessary to mark her territory on every square inch of my beautiful rug, the little dickens.

Day 4:

Babe said he didn't mind making an emergency trip to PetSmart at seven o'clock this morning when we completely ran out of puppy peepee pads. Just in case the store had not yet opened, he took along a sledgehammer heavy enough to break the glass and rob the place. What a clever man I married. Lucky for him, the manager is a morning person. Babe could only buy five-dozen peepee pads for our little bundle of badness, but it should be more than enough. Surely, it can’t be much longer before she is housebroken.

Day 5:

I don't how she did it, but Puppykins managed to go through every one of those new pads Babe bought only yesterday. Consequently, Lady Gaga scored yet another point on Granny's rug. My house smells like a nursing home. Lady Gaga’s loving eyes and the cute way she cocks her head to stare straight through me were adorable four days ago, but today, they are getting on my last nurturing nerve. If Babe's dog pees or poops on Granny's rug one more time, they are both history. I have allergies. I have lived all of my life with a firm Animals Don't Live in the House with People Policy. I have limits.

Day 6:

This morning Babe went in search of an open all night pet store in case we need more peepee pads later tonight and just after he left the house, my doorbell rang. It was the UPS man delivering a new issue of It's All About Moi Magazine. I love getting packages via UPS and flirting with the hot UPS guy. I may be over fifty but I ain't dead. I asked him if, by chance, he suffered from dog allergies. He said he did not. Then he added (with tears pooling in his luscious Paul Newman blue eyes) that he was still mourning for his recently departed Poodle, Tammy Faye. The poor little thing had choked trying to eat his wife’s false eyelashes. Within fifteen minutes she took a one-way trip to PTL Dog heaven. Feeling obliged to help that man deal with his sorrow, I gave him Lady Gaga. I hope his burden of grief will soon be lifted, not as high as Tammy Faye went, but high enough to get him through the next few years.

Day 7:

I have been grinning for so long my jaws ache. Each time I picture Lady Gaga riding in the front seat of that UPS truck looking so darn happy, I know in my heart that Mr. UPS and Lady Poopoo, uh, I mean Gaga, were meant to be. They are a match made in heaven. From now on, I will try to muddle through the days while lounging in my now environmentally refreshed and blissfully quiet home sans no distractions and smelly rugs while reading my newest issue of It's All About Moi Magazine.

What can BROWN do for you?

Cappy Hall Rearick