The Pursuit of Happiness

As you know, our Jack Russell Terrier is 18 years old, and on her last legs. We’ve reached the touch and go stage and I observe my wife stepping into the dog’s room several times a day to check if she’s still breathing.

Her abiding love for our JRT hasn’t stopped her from perusing websites for a replacement. So far, a Welsh Corgi is in the lead – it’s a Queen thing – but she likes Boston Terriers and she’s open to picking up a shelter dog if the right one shows up. I guess we’ll know it when we see it.

More unsettling, though, is how often she gazes at me with the same diagnostic look reserved for the dog. So far I’m still breathing, but if she’s concerned I suppose I should be, too. It’s possible I’ve reached the touch and go stage and just haven’t been told.

I’m not aware of her checking websites for my replacement, but I’m okay with it if she is. However, interested candidates need to be aware that my wife loves money. That doesn’t mean she’ll marry you for money, but it does mean that her love for dead presidents will run a close second to her feelings for you. And if you don’t have any money she’ll expect you to earn it.       

The first time I saw her she was sitting on the front steps of the Courthouse in Noblesville, Indiana, digging a cockleburr out of her foot with a pocketknife. Buddy, I sez to myself, that’s the girl for me. Little did I know that behind the Daisy Mae blue eyes was a woman who not only was close with a dollar, but could compound interest in her head. Fortunately, love compounds like interest, too. Goodbye slow mornings, coffee with the boys, and gazing into Pascal’s navel; hello property management, landlordiness, and rehabbing Hooverville for Ben Franklins.

By all means, apply – when the time is right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re pushing a mower at the age of 105. She’ll make you happy, and she’ll never give you hell… (but she’ll rent it to you).