The Dog

We thought the dog would keep us together but it turned out neither of us liked the dog. It was a small yappy little thing that would come running up to you as soon as you got in the house and got settled. The man who sold us the dog told us that it would get bigger, but it didn’t. When we took it to the vet the first time, it turned out it wasn’t even a puppy. So it’s going to stay like this, my wife asked, forever? More or less, said the vet. In the car my wife suggested we have children. I could barely see to drive, the dog kept trying to jump on my lap. Would you hold that thing down, I asked my wife. Children? I asked. My wife said that at least with children we knew they’d grow up. It would be like a project, she said. A joint effort. Each of us combining our individual talents and interests towards a single goal. The sum greater than the etc. Well, what do we do with this thing, I said. Would you hold that thing down, I said. I’m trying, said my wife, I’m trying. At the stoplight a group of Hare Krishnas walked past with their drums and their bells. We were near the university, I guess. My wife held the dog up to her face. It doesn’t look particularly intelligent, she said. We would want intelligent children, wouldn’t we? I suppose so, I said. You sound like you have misgivings, she said. You said the dog would be intelligent, I said, but that thing can’t even stop itself from peeing on the bed. I suppose we can expect the children to pee on the bed as well. My wife made a sound of disgust in her throat. If you weren’t so cynical, she said, we wouldn’t have to get rid of the dog.