Years ago the old ball and chain (OB&C) decided we should get a dog. I was adamantly against it, pulled the nuclear option and said “Absolutely not, it’s either me or the d….” I never even got to the “og” part before he was out of the house and backing down the driveway. The dog was a complete pain in the ass, high strung, opinionated, ill tempered, picky eater, afraid of thunder and lightening and a racist. One stormy night he jumped the fence and ran off. OB&C sprang into action, had hundreds of flyers printed with the dog’s picture and nailed them on every telephone pole within a five mile radius. He offered a reward for any information on the dog’s whereabouts and spent weeks scouring the neighborhood. I think I can state without fear of contradiction that if I had jumped a fence in a thunderstorm and run off he would not have expended a fraction of that effort. Someone finally called about the dog and we tracked him down to the hood where he was living like the canine equivalent of Hugh Hefner. We had to drag him back, literally. True to form he lived forever and at the end required more care than my mother-in-law with Alzheimers.
