Back to the dog story and my collusion for delusion.

My semi-comatose husband leaning on the kitchen counter, I enthusiastically laid out my plan. First step, assume the sale. Gently stirring the air, I entered the kitchen in my usual, exuberant way, “Bob, we’re going to foster a dog.”  Careful to consider my husband’s Scorpio-ing attention to detail, I’d effused it would be a small dog, one that’s easy to handle and that the kids could walk. I watched, counting the seconds. His dull, piercing glaze lifted from the brew where Howdy stirred – I knew what was coming and quickly added, “and one that won’t shed much!”

Sensing he was in one of his epic Scorpio moods, I began the humanitarian barrage to attack his ‘sweet spot’.  You see, my husband studied to be a music minister but he didn’t take that path. Still, he reads the bible three times a day, constantly searching, for what I don’t know, but searching.  I was going to be the flashlight. Bubbles of hope and optimism popped off the walls of our kitchen, a picture of hope for humanity, of the world peace that was knocking at our door!

Braced by the counter, he mumbled an incoherent “Alright.”

For some reason, it’s important for me to state here that I’m not the ‘ask for permission’ type. He knew that when he married me. It’s probably one of the reasons I never dreamed of being married. Independence is high on my value list, right alongside honesty. But the Art of Marriage is learning how and when to compromise or sacrifice while still holding on to yourself. The Divine and I have had many conversations on this, some out loud, but never in front of others. Thank God.

Victory in hand, I wasted no time.  My psychic thank-you dashed to the Divine, I gave a quick nod to Deming’s Out of the Crisis, and raced to make my dream a reality. Moments later I was off the phone with Diane, who heads All American Dachshund Rescue. Soon after, Hunter arrived. The deal? We’d have him for a few weeks until his forever home was found.

Yeah, you know the rest.

But I must mention, Hunter was a standard, long-hair red dachshund with huge brown eyes that he’d hang on your heart. Traffic in the ‘hood’ stopped to watch this boy on his walks. He was stunning but modest about it. Imagine Kramer from Jerry Seinfeld meets David Beckham (with or without the tattoos). Hunter knew how to work the crowd.  Goofy, playful and odd at times, Hunter’s more irritating behaviors like poor house-training were quickly overshadowed by his joie de vivre, how he’d bounce off the walls of the kitchen at the mere hint of food.

We stopped fostering.

But life again, got predictable.