There’s a commercial I hear on sports talk radio — I think it’s for Goodyear Tires — in which one guy says to another guy something like, “Just because you use seatbelts on your dogs doesn’t make them your kids.” (Will someone who’s better at searching the internet than I am let me know the actual product, and the actual words? Thanks.) And the other guy says to his dogs, “You didn’t hear that, guys.”
As someone who frequently refers to Ricky as my “fourth son,” and who has Ricky riding shotgun with me constantly, I, of course, am totally with “the other guy.”
Ricky’s not one of my kids? Then why do I carry him up to his doggy bed and kiss him good night — in our bedroom — after he falls asleep in the den? Why do I towel him off, from nose to tail, every time we come in after a walk in the rain? Why does he get his own salad when he’s starving and it’s really too early to give him his dinner? Why do I leave the shades drawn when I get dressed in the morning if he’s still sleeping — and leave the TV on for him to enjoy if I go out while we’re watching a Mets game together? Why, when I come in from a run, does Luz point to Ricky, asleep in his crate, put her finger to her lips, and go “Shhh”? Why does Luz take Ricky out for a walk so he won’t get “upset” when the family is packing to go away for a weekend? Why do we compliment him for everything he does? (“Ricky, good boy drinking water like that!”)
Don’t worry, Ricky. That guy who says your dogs aren’t your kids — what does he know? Besides, it’s only a commercial. For something . . .
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