Oscar the Incorrigible

This past weekend, our furry friend Oscar turned 6. We celebrated with kindling in Harvard Yard (our favorite) and lots of treats (Oscar's favorite). 

We are definitely one of those childless couples who dote on our dog. Oscar is our fur baby, and I'm not going to lie, we are crazy about him. We probably spend 75% of our time talking to him, or about him, or wondering what he's up to. 

The funny thing is, despite his current status as dog lover, when Oscar and I first met Mike he didn't even like dogs. And he especially didn't know what to make of Oscar. Oscar tried to play nice and bring his rope toy to Mike for him to throw, but Mike didn't really appreciate the slobbery, stinky piece of rope being repeatedly dropped on his lap. And when Oscar wanted to play tug, Mike got a little nervous (there may have been a slight nip based entirely on a misunderstanding about who was tugging first). He wasn't sure how to talk to Oscar, how to give him commands that he would actually understand. Like on one of our first trips to Fresh Pond, Mike couldn't understand why Oscar wasn't following his instructions to,"Stay Right!", or "Go Left! Left!" And picking up dog poop? Well, let's just say that was way beyond his comfort zone. 

Luckily, Oscar has a way of growing on people. Maybe its the way he tilts his head when he's trying real hard to understand what you're saying. Or it could be the way his little stump of a tail wags furiously when he's happy. Or maybe it's just that he's sweet, and he's cuddly, and he makes you feel loved. 

Whatever the reason, when I left for a trip to Australia, Mike and Oscar truly bonded. And seeing that bond, well, it made me happier than I ever expected. Because when I started dating Mike, it was the first time in my life that I was consciously looking for a partner, a husband, and a father to my future children. He had proved himself to be an amazing boyfriend, but seeing him take care of Oscar made me realize what an incredible father he would be one day. He was responsible. He was loving. He was sensitive to all of Oscar's needs. And most telling of all, he was incredibly patient with him. 

You see, what I failed to mention is that Oscar, while sweet and amazing and wonderful, is also a bit of a head case. With us, in the apartment, he is quiet as a mouse. But take him on a walk and run into another dog, and, well, he loses it. Oscar is scared of dogs and so he completely flips out when he sees them. He has the bark of dog 5 times his size. Think Cujo. I expected Mike to become frustrated and angry with our ill-behaved pup. But instead, he had infinite patience. 

I was already in love. But it was Oscar who made me realize Mike was "the one".

What Bridget Does When Mike Plays Kickball

Summers are generally fairly busy for us. It is the magical time in New England when the weather is bearable, there is daylight until 8pm, and Bostonians pretend to like each other. It makes up for those 15 months of miserable winter. 

Mike likes to spend a lot of this free time engaged in some type of athletic pursuit. Tonight, he is playing kickball (turns out I use the term “athletic” loosely). So on most Thursday nights this summer it is just me and Oscar, kicking back, shooting the breeze. I’m heating up a nice frozen meal. Oscar is playing with his rope. Life is good. And while we both miss Mike immensely, Oscar and I tend to look forward to these nights alone. 

Ok, I can’t speak for Oscar. He’s actually probably miserable right now. But I do know that for me, Thursday nights are a little slice of heaven. Why, you ask? Because it is the one night of the week that I get to watch terrible TV with reckless abandon. 

You see, Mike has no tolerance for reality TV of any sort. He is physically incapable of sitting through an episode of Real Housewives. But not only that, he is also physically incapable of being in the same apartment with me when I watch Real Housewives. 

Because Mike just doesn’t understand why I would waste hours of my precious day losing brain cells. He just can’t help himself from asking things like, “Sweetie, why do you watch this crap?” Or, “Princess, what could you possibly enjoy about these terrible women and their awful lives?” Or he simply looks at me with that look in his eye. The one that says, “I have very seriously misjudged this woman’s intelligence.” He tries to understand. He really does. But it takes a special type of person to really appreciate terrible TV. You could say I am extra special. 

So you can understand why for me to really enjoy bad TV, I have to be alone. It’s like binging. On these precious Thursday nights at home by myself I get to catch up with all my friends. My girl Bethenny, the crazy ladies from RHONY, the even crazier ladies of RHOC, and Kim and Kroy and Kim’s meth-head mom making sure they aren’t Tardy for the Wedding (seriously, worst show title ever). Don’t even get me started on those Kardashians. I could watch them for days. There is something about Kim’s plastic face that just fascinates me.

Basically, if it is on Bravo or E!, I’ll indulge in it. Pregnant in Heels? Check. Interior Therapy with Jeff Lewis? I’m on it. Miss Advised? Don’t mind if I do. Mrs. Eastwood & Company? Well, no. I have to draw the line somewhere. That show is unwatchable. 

Bad TV is my guilty pleasure. And I prefer to indulge in this pleasure in the company of my accepting pooch, Oscar. So this Thursday night I’m looking forward to hitting the couch, turning off my brain, and indulging in a freeze pop or twenty. 

Just don’t tell Mike. He things I’m listening to NPR and reading Book Four of Robert A. Caro’s The Years of Lyndon Johnson while solving a sudoku puzzle and doing pushups.   

The Adoption of Oscar

I've never been a dog person. Not even close. In fact, I've been the opposite for most of my life. We never owned a dog when I was growing up and a stupid one bit me on the ankle when I was 10. (That's how I remember it anyway.) Plus, dogs are loud, covered in slobber, and full of poop. Who needs 'em, right?

Then I met Oscar.

Oscar is our almost-6-year-old Australian Shepherd. He's the greatest dog on the planet. Sure, he sheds a lot. (Also, I'm allergic to him.) He barks a lot. He bites his leash when you try to run with him. And he's fairly incorrigible. But he turns all of that around when he lays down on your lap and asks you to rub his belly.

Now, it wasn't always this way with me and Oscar. When we first met, I wasn't really sure what to make of him; I think he was hesitant, too. (Who is this man in my house? Bark! Why is he sitting so close to that woman that feeds me and picks up my poop? Bark! Wait, do I have to poop now? Bark!) He nipped my hand the first time I played with him. He has yet to apologize.

But then, slowly, we became friends. I learned how to feed him, how to tell him "no," and how to clean  up after him. (This part wasn't so much fun.) I became his official tennis ball thrower and nap cushion. When I went away on trips, I realized I missed him terribly. And the day he was throwing up instead of eating because he ate a cooked hambone the day before (Note to dog owners: Never, ever feed your dog a cooked bone) was one of the longest I can remember.

That's why the conversation Oscar and I had about his adoption was so crucial. Here's the transcript, mostly in photos:

"Oscar, bud, we've come very far. Since I'm married to Bridget, I think it's time we make it official and I adopt you. What do you think?"

"Really?"

"Whoa. This is serious ..."

"I need a minute ..."

So, I gave him some space. Then, he looked up:

"Okay!"

Of all the gifts Bridget has given me in the last two years of our lives (and the first 2.5 months of marriage), it's hard to identify any better than the dog I learned to love. Even if he still barks a lot.