Bulletproof

You can’t have another dog.” My heart stopped. We just buried Yogi, the dog I brought into our marriage a decade earlier. My response would make or break us.

“I’m 60 years old. I don’t need permission.”

“It will fuck up our relationship.”

“If your son didn’t, we’re bulletproof.”

It was our first and last argument.

Thirteen years and one Newfoundland later, we became dogless again. Within a year I was at the end of my tolerance for living dogless. I dreaded what I thought would be our second argument.

"We're getting too old to raise a puppy."

"They aren't puppies for long. The dog will get old, too."

"I thought you wanted to travel."

"Where have we gone since we've been without one?"

"Nowhere. I started looking for a puppy the day after we buried Eli."

If it was possible, we became closer as we searched for the right pup, chose a name we both liked, and prepared for Odie's arrival.

I cherish his loving acceptance every day. The dog seems to like it, too.