Lisa Scottoline - Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog - The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman

I will.

Let me tell you the story of Little Tony, my insanely plucky black-and-tan King Charles Cavalier puppy.

If you think you’ve got problems, Little Tony’s started on his second day of life on the planet, when his mother accidentally chewed off his foreskin, along with his umbilical cord.

Thanks, Mom.

I’m told he didn’t even whimper in protest, and this I believe. Nothing gets this puppy down, even though he’s more anatomically incorrect than a Ken doll. And every time he pees, it looks like a sprinkler went off.

All over his four legs.

Now, I ask you, if every time you went to the bathroom, you had to change your pants, wouldn’t you whine? No? Now how about if you had to change your sweater, too, and then wash the floor? In short, what if, most of the time, you could pass for a rest stop on the turnpike?

Not to mention that he’s missing most of what is some men’s favorite organ. And it was his own mother who emasculated him. It gives new meaning to the term castrating bitch.

This would cause psychological problems of major proportions in mostly anybody, or at least entitle them to a guest shot on Dr. Phil.

But Little Tony’s fine with it.

This is a dog who could be sending Medea a greeting card on Mother’s Day, yet he never whines about Mom or anything else.

In short, in all things, he’s relentlessly Cavalier.

This may sound tautological, but he’s happy because he’s happy. It’s simply an act of will, on his part. It’s not a matter of not sweating the small stuff; it’s not sweating anything at all. Ever. Now and forever. He’s just a rolling ball of good will, positive energy, and fun.

And as a result, miracles happen.

I say this because, if you recall, my dog family includes Penny and Angie, mellow golden retrievers, which is redundant, and the control freak of the canine world, Ruby The Corgi. Ruby’s not a bad dog, she’s just territorial, and her territory is the Northern Hemisphere.

If you live here, it’s only because she forbears.

Maybe because she’s a herding dog, Ruby feels the need to order the comings and goings in everyone’s daily life, and that includes mechanical objects. She barks if cell phones ring without permission. Computer printers produce major affronts. Vacuum cleaners declare war.

Because she has so much responsibility, it’s tough to be Ruby. She was on Prozac for a while, but that didn’t work. Maybe next we’ll try Pilates.

The problem is, she’s the world police, so she can never rest. She watches everything. She’s alert to every sound. She keeps dogs, cats, and chickens in line. She’s the one who tried to bite my old golden retriever Lucy, and I got caught in the crossfire, sending me to the ER without a bra.

But that’s another story.

Bottom line, Ruby doesn’t play well with others. When daughter Francesca’s new puppy Pip entered her universe, Ruby morphed into the ultimate Mean Girl. So I knew that if I got a new puppy, I was in for dog management problems, if not the battle of the century.

But what do you think happened?

What results when endless good meets endless, well, Ruby?

I warn you, my specialty is the surprise ending.

Ruby loves Little Tony.

Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles.

From the first moment Little Tony set his tiny black paw in this house, Ruby adored him. They play together all day. They sleep together at night. They share Nylabones and tennis balls. They even share food.

They are BFFs.

I cannot explain this remarkable turn of events. It’s so sappy, it doesn’t even happen in greeting cards.

All I can do is learn from it.

Little Tony is my new guru.

And I’m never complaining about Mother Mary, ever again.

I woke up this morning with the best hot flash I ever had. This was such a good hot flash that if I smoked, I would’ve reached for a cigarette.

If you get my drift.

Oh. My. God.

Blood seemed to rush all over my body, from everywhere at once, to everywhere at once, setting every inch of me tingling. My puppy Little Tony, who had been sleeping in the crook of my arm, looked up at me in amazement.

I asked him, “Don’t you wish you were a middle-aged woman?”

So let me say a word or two about hot flashes, because the fact is, I’m a big fan.

To back up a minute, it’s amazing that I have yet to discuss hot flashes, because usually, they’re my second or third conversational subject, after hair products and carbohydrates.

I know I’m not alone in this, at least among women. Cross the threshold of any ladies’ room, and all anybody is talking about is their hair, their kids, their weight, and their hot flashes.

Don’t go cranky on me.

I’m not being sexist or saying that women can’t discuss politics, the economy, or the stock market, but that isn’t the stuff we’re talking about in the ladies’ room. A ladies’ room is a girl headquarters, where everybody reapplies eyeliner that doesn’t need reapplying, squeezes back into pantyhose, and continues conversations into the stalls. Nobody cares enough about the stock market to take it into the stalls.

Kids, yes.

Hot flashes, definitely.

Most women I know complain about “flashing,” as the doctors call it, and I used to, before I met Little Tony and began my really annoying crusade of positivity. So this is how I look at hot flashes now:

They’re a godsend.

Observe.

I don’t know about you, but I was cold for approximately the first forty years of my life. In winter, I’d freeze my butt off, and in summer, I hated air-conditioning. I used to fight with everybody over the thermostat, and I never won. I was always the coldest person in the room, and so were all my women friends.

No longer.

Hot flashes are God’s way of compensating women for all the years they spent being cold.

Now, we will be toasty no matter what the weather, and all we have to do is get old. It doesn’t even take any effort or cost anything. All we have to do is keep breathing, and all of us, our gender entire, will be wrapped up in a permanent burrito of thermal pleasure.

It’s like we’ll all have our own Snuggie fleece blanket, as Seen On TV, only we don’t have to walk around looking like monks.

And don’t forget the other advantage of flashing, namely the aforementioned tingling.

Let’s talk turkey.

There are times in life when we have to settle for second best. For example, we would love to have a hamburger, but we settle for the veggie burger. Or we would love to have a gorgeous Chanel purse, but we settle for the look-alike.

So you know where this is going.

Think of a hot flash that way, if you follow.

If it makes you tingle all over, sets your blood pounding, raises your body temperature, and usually happens in bed, wouldn’t you settle for a hot flash?

If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, why split hairs?

Plus, you can be alone and get a hot flash. You don’t have to marry and divorce anyone. Or worse, share your closet space.

I think it’s all part of God’s divine plan, sending us hot flashes at a time in our lives when the real deal tends to be in shorter supply. Everybody’s sex life diminishes as they get older, and kids and carbohydrates don’t help.