I’m a mild-mannered, conservatively dressed female, only 5’ 3” tall. I don’t sport body piercings or carry a weapon. Still, some people consider me a menace.
(My dog, Ken, “at work.”)
Back in the days when gas was cheap and tattoos were for tough biker types, dogs slept in dog beds on the floor, waited for someone to remember to toss them a bone now and then, and had names such as Fido or Pizza.Since then, things have swung wildly in the dogs’ direction. Today’s tail-waggers are named Zelda, Brian, or Charlene, and they have been upgraded to sleeping in their owners’ beds. Some go to therapy to help them with their “issues,” which may include being named Zelda, Brian or Charlene and having to wear miniature Burberry trench coats and Prada sunglasses. In fact, dogs no longer have owners – they have “human companions.”
(Photo credit Dr. Manny Saltiel, who is also the father of my darling daughter-in-law.)
When I was single, I was anxious about almost every first date. I wondered: Could he be the one? Would he find me amusing? Was my lipstick smearing? Was his smile genuine? But when I first went out with my husband, Jeff, there were no such anxious thoughts, nor any awkward silences. From the moment we introduced ourselves, we fell into easy conversation for hours. I had the odd sensation that somehow, Jeff was not a new person in my life, but an old friend whom I simply hadn’t met until that evening.