A few weeks ago, my little chiweenie got hurt and couldn’t ride the bike with me.
“I don’t know how I’m going to ride without the dog finding out,” I told the wife. “She’ll know the second I fill the water bottles and put on the cycling shorts.”
Last time I tried to leave without her, the dog climbed on the back of the couch, cocked her head back, and howled like a mini-Coyote until I returned.
“You can never do that again,” the wife said.
So here we were lying in bed and trying to figure out how to lie to the dog.
The dog is leaning into my thigh listening to every word. I’m pretty sure she understands most of it.
“You’ll have to put your bike in the car and drive away,” the wife suggested. “If she sees that bike, you’re busted.”
“I’ll have to fill the water bottles the day before and hope she forgets…”
“You can’t get dressed in front of her, she can spot your cycling jerseys a mile away…”
“I’ll probably have to shower at my dad’s senior living facility. I can’t come home smelling like sweat.”
“But don’t smell too good — that’s a dead giveaway.
“You’re going to need street clothes for when you leave and when you come back. Make sure to wear the same thing, or she will know.”
Jesus. How does the wife know all these tricks?
For fuck’s sake, how do I?
We have been together for 40 years. Married for 37.
I’ve never cheated. Doubt she has. But obviously, we have thought about it. These plans sound far too practiced.
Practiced and practical, but none of it would ever fucking work.
I doubt the two of us working together could cheat on that chiweenie more than twice without getting caught.
None of this shit would have a prayer of working on a human who was paying attention.
So you see my friends, failing to even cheat on a chiweenie is just one of the things that keeps us institutionalized in this 4-decade marriage.
PS
I’ll save the sad story of the dog’s injury for another day. But good news — she is going to be fine (probably already is by the time you read all this shit).
Carol will no doubt be up and riding soon.
Going to take her for a spin tonight. Just got back from Italy. Already have 3 Italian stories for the blog.
Gomer Pyle, you God damn communist heathen, didn’t you learn anything from Scott Stoddard? He put the family to bed and showed up at the third world club to play tennis, drink beer out of Larry’s bag and follow it up with a trip to Old Chicago until 1:00 in the morning. You can’t fool a 10 pound chiweenie?
I knew Scott Stoddard. And I’m no Scott Stoddard. Of course my chiweenie never wants me to leave. Not sure Scott can claim the same.