My husband is in love with another girl.
Her name is Sadie.
(Or, whenever she's alone with me, Cujo.)
I first saw the level of Michael's devotion when I shopped out a new pair of flip-flops for me.
"20 bucks for a pair of flip-flops?" he gasped.
"Dog for you. Flip-flops for me."
He paid without another wag of the lips, or tail, as the case may be.
Then, I've watched morning after early morning as Michael gets up to take care of the dog. As in, 5:45 am in the early morning.
Michael doesn't do early mornings.
Michael scrapped his hiking itinerary during our southernly sojourn to St. George, just to accomodate the puppy who wasn't allowed in Zion's National Park.
Michael doesn't scrap plans, especially plans that either annoy (i.e. time share presentations) or scare the scrap (read: Angel's Landing) out of me.
And, Michael bought special treats for the dog. At full price. That he keeps in the fridge. (Gross. Scarily enough, I had curiously wondered who had given us a sausage roll, and what I should make with it for dinner...)
Michael doesn't buy special treats. Michael doesn't do full price.
And I'm playing it safe and going vegetarian.
But I really, really knew Michael and his heart were gone-ers when I found a 5-inch patch of berber carpet that the dog had unraveled.
"Keri," he said, when I bemoaned the state of my sitting room floor, "We've had this carpet for almost 10 years! You've got to expect that things are going to happen."
This, from the man who railed against the repair man when he told us our 40-some-year-old heater had heated its last.
"They just don't make things the way they used to, " he lamented. "My parents' heater has never broken down, and it's got to be at least 50 years old!"
Well, at least Michael has Sadie to keep him warm.
And I've got new flip-flops.