The Good Boss
We gripe about our "bosses"--Flyboy, The Saint, Sweetie, etc. But they do some good things, right? It's time to fess up and share the good, since we love to dish the bad!
I dog The Boss and he, in turn, gets teased at work about the things I discuss, dissect and expose to the world.
But don’t feel too sorry for him, because my mother takes his side on everything.
She believes a man truly is the boss, and the wife should tend to his every need.
When I was scheduled for a hysterectomy six years ago, what was her first worry? That I might get an infection? Have terrible pain? Nope. The first thing she asked was what meals I was planning to cook and freeze before I went under the knife so The Boss wouldn’t starve.
But one should always give credit where credit is due, and The Boss deserves a lot.
Fourteen years ago when we moved to our house, we adopted our first dog during a cold December. We planned on putting up a fence in spring, but after a few days of taking Tramp out on leash in miserable weather, The Boss spent an entire icy weekend fencing in the backyard.
When our second dog, a stray beagle named Penny, got arthritic in her last years, The Boss replaced the front steps with a ramp so she wouldn’t have to struggle down the many steps to the backyard with the others. He also built a new fence out of lattice to secure the yard.
Though The Boss is a man who didn’t want even one dog in the house, when strays Zoe and Peanut showed up a year apart, he accepted each, and we had a four-pack.
When Penny crawled under the front porch and died one dripping-hot July day, it was The Boss who tore open the side of the porch, crawled under and pulled her body out with a rope. He dug her grave, as I cried from the porch, “Make it deep! I don’t want anything digging up my sweet Penny!” He dug deeper. After I sobbed final goodbyes, he wrapped her limp body in a blanket, lowered her to rest and even added a few cinder blocks before filling.
Shortly after, Scooter joined the family. Both Scooter and Penny were master escape artists, and The Boss spent many hours playing Bill Murray to the gophers, just like in the move “Caddyshack.” He put in a higher backyard gate. He staked the bottom of the chain-link. Finally, he added a line of heavy, 4x4, 12’ posts along the outside of the fence.
When 15-year-old Tramp collapsed late one night, The Boss drove us to the vet, as I sat crying in the backseat with her on my lap. She died there, in the exact same place she rested when brought home that December day 13 years before. He picked up her remains after she was cremated, as I couldn’t bear it.
After our first cat Yogi got killed by a car and I decided I was ready for another, I insisted on buying a cat fence-in system. The Boss spent days installing it across the top of our existing front fence. Now our two cats can go out safely.
The Boss might gripe along the way, but he’ll take a pet to the vet, clean a litter box, fix dinner, administer medicine, clean up messes, give baths.
The Boss and I are opposites—I’m the outgoing, bossy Yankee; he’s the introverted, mannerly Southern boy. I guess we work because we balance. The Boss is a good daddy and a great husband. He puts up with my love of pets because he loves me, and that’s worth more than all the flowers in the world.
So despite The Boss’s many, many—many faults, Zoe, Peanut, Scooter, Tarzan, Catfish and I couldn’t do it without him.
posted by Sandy at 4/18/2007 08:53:00 AM