Husbands gone wild...

You know, occasionally I find myself envying women whose men, when traveling, like to hang out in strip clubs, chase women and run wild.

Not mine. Oh no.

So I get this phone call. From a mildly inebriated Mr. Abby. He rambled on for a while about what a nice day his professional development class had at their picnic. Rambled on about the scenery and the potato salad.

Then, "Umm...I've got something to tell you. I'm bringing someone home with me."

I paused. "I'm not sure how to respond to that, honey."

"He's black. And tall. Well, he's not tall, but he will be."

"Oh Jesus Christ, did you find a Great Dane or something?"

"Noooo...a lab puppy."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"They said they were gonna put him to sleep!"

Sigh. So apparently, my goddam husband fell victim to some couple with a two-month-old lab pup that they found, and can't keep, and were going to take to the Shelter O' Death. So Mr. Abby, knowing that his wife loves all the dogs, said he'd take him.

I really don't feel the need for a third dog. Two is enough. But I love big black dogs, and we're easy touches, so we'll have a new Bad Dog here in a couple of weeks. I suppose, since our lives are already totally ruled by the dogs we've got, another one isn't really going to add that much headache.

But for the love of God - if I get another "I have to tell you something" phone call, it'd better involve cheap floozies and not something I'm going to have to take to the vet, housebreak and take for walks.