Happiness is a warm puppy

This was written by a friend of mine and I thought you’d enjoy it:

It’s 7pm, my husband walk through the door and immediately
drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged in the center hallway.  “Sherman!!” he yells.
“Sherman! C’mere, boy”.

Our 5 month old puppy rounds the corner like a cartoon
rabbit and barrels toward Jim with no strategy for stopping.  He slides until he crashes into the open arms of my 59 year old husband, who is laughing so hard his eyes grow sparkly wet.

“How’s my boy?” he asks, ruffling Sherman’s ears
as he tumbles backward with the puppy on his chest.  “How’s my boy, huh?” Sherman erupts
into a series of howls as he makes a rumpled mess of Jim’s dress shirt.

“Ohhh, buddy,” Jim says, “We’re happy to see
Daddy, aren’t we? Yes, we are, yes, we are.”  I clear my throat.  Jim looks up, briefly, and smiles, “oh,
hi, honey,” he says, scratching Sherman’s tummy. “We’re glad to see
Mommy, aren’t we, buddy?”

Three months ago, we adopted 9-week-ol Sherman from an animal
rescue group.  On the drive to pick him
up, my husband insisted on boundaries.
No. 1: “I’m not his daddy,” he said.  “You’re not his mommy.”

Second rule: No sleeping on our bed.  I’m reminded of that one every time Sherman
crawls onto my pillow and skips his tongue into my ear.

Sherman is my husband’s first puppy in more than 50 years,
which I didn’t realize until the ride home with Sherman, who sat on my lap as
Jim drove.  Sort of.  “on, my gosh, look at him, ” Jim
said, over and over.  “Look what he’s
doing now.” He said this every time Sherman cocked his head, wagged his
tail, or even sighed.

“Honey,” I said each time our car veered to the
right, “You can pet him when we get home.”

Our four grown child have wasted no time pointing out that
both of us are fools for this pup.
Recently, they gathered around the refrigerator, all of them huffing and
pointing at the photo display on the door.
“Really?” Mary said, holding her palms to the sky.
“they’re all pictures of you and dad and—-Sherman!” Bob pointed to
the only picture of a human under 50. “Your grandson’s feet?” he
said, gesturing to a shot of 4 year old Kevin’s bare toes dangling through our second-floor
railing.  “You have one picture up
here of your grandson, and it’s his feet?”

When I smiled at Sherman as he slept in his doggy bed by the
kitchen table, our youngest signed, “Yeah,” she said, “you used
to look at me like that.”

After our daughter thanked us for giving her the baby”
brother” she’d always wanted, we had to admit we were being a wee bit over
the top.  Our every phone call includes
Sherman updates.  When I pick him up from
puppy day car, I test his report card to Jim.
Last Monday romped with two other pups and Sherman specialized in
“being a cutie!!: On Friday, he played tag with Henry and “wrestled
all day!”

Yes, we’re silly.
Yes, we know he’s a dog.  Yes, we
understand he will never talk. Or so you say.

Here’s the thing.  I
watch my husband playing with Sherman and I see the boy he used to be.  When you’re a middle-aged wife in love with
your husband, that’s something.

Jim announces that he and Sherman are gong out to rake the
leaves.  Soon, I hear repeated shouts of
“Ready, set, go!!” There is Jim tossing his puppy into a mountain of
leaves.  Each time, Sherman’s ears flap
like wings as he leaps and darts before jumping back into Jim’s arms.

“That’s my boy!” my husband yells, laughing so
hard he can barely breathe.

………………..this story just made me smile……

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