Huckleberry

"For the record, I do NOT want a dog," my husband had told me, "but I'll get one for you anyway, if that's what you really want..."

I think he was feeling sorry for me. The whole not-having-another-baby thing was--and is--depressing me, and I think we both thought a dog might ease it.

That was a couple of months ago, and after exhaustive, obsessive research, I decided upon the perfect breed for me: the Maltese, or, as my husband affectionately refers to it: "the faggiest dog you've ever seen in your life."

"Uh, honey...thanks for offering to get me a dog. We won't be going to the pound, though. What I really want is a dog like Leona Helmsley had--the one she left like $10 million dollars to? Which is about how much one of those dogs costs."

Some days, I don't know how my husband tolerates me.

Luckily, I was able to find a four year-old Maltese who needed a home, and we got him for a song. Well, I'm not sure that's how my husband would characterize the cost, but you know. We got him for a third of what you'd normally pay. So, like $3.33 million.

The kink was that I had to travel to Florida to get him. Don't ask me why I couldn't find a suitable dog in Virginia. Let's just say they weren't expensive enough.

Ok, so somewhere between my husband agreeing to get a dog and actually getting a dog, I might have built up my expectations a little high for what this dog was going to do for my broken heart. But nothing could have prepared me for what ended up happening.

I woke up in the middle of the night on a Saturday, flew down to Florida, spent the day with Huckleberry's owners, then flew back with him that same day. I almost missed my connection in Atlanta on the way home, and found myself running through the airport with the doggie freaking out in the carrier slung over my arm, so that it must have looked like the carrier itself was alive, the way it was bouncing and dancing like some sort of carry-on mosh pit.

I got home at midnight, and painstakingly followed Cesar Millan's advice on how to introduce a new dog to your home. We didn't get to bed until almost 2 a.m. But no matter: I was elated to finally have in my possession the furball of my dreams, who was going to be the perfect distraction, the perfect companion, the perfect salve, the perfect salvation.

I woke up to find this dog for whom I had meticulously pored over all manner of doggie books and blogs, shopped endlessly, and sleeplessly traveled two thousand miles in one day to bring home 100% attached to my husband, and completely disinterested in me. My husband, who did not even want this creature. My husband, who was not only perplexed by the dog's intense affection for him, he was actually disgusted. He kept looking at Huckleberry, asking with disdain, "Why? WHY?!?!"

I went upstairs and cried my eyes out.

And then I poisoned the dog.

Kidding, of course. I would never kill something we'd paid that much money for. I set about doing something I have had a lot of practice doing: convincing a male who wants nothing to do with me to love me.

One thing I know for sure: I. will. win. Just ask Jay. When we first started dating, he told me he wasn't ever interested in getting married again, having more kids, or, for that matter, having a committed relationship. Oh, REALLY? We'll see about that...