By Ruffin Alphin

My wife cheated. She stacked the deck against me. She said she wanted a little lap dog, you know, not a real “man dog,” red-blooded, no yip-yap, at least 30 pounds of canine brawn. Evidently it slipped her mind that I ride a Harley — the two-wheeled kind you have to balance.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “A fru-fru chick dog?” I was more excited about my last colonoscopy.

Just to be a considerate husband, I agreed to go with her to see this Maltipoo designer puppy in Hampton. That was a mistake. Have you ever seen a month-old puppy that was repulsive or anywhere close to being repulsive? Even if they turn out to be a grotesque mature mongrel, at four weeks, all curs are cute. I should have thought through this better. As soon as we saw the little fur ball, I think I distinctly remember Dorothy gloating with glee, or should I say gloating in victory. No man with half a human heart can resist the licks of a one-pound puff of black fur with a white bearded chin. This was not fair; I knew I was done for.

As soon as we brought the little rascal home, all my resistance, which had begun to dissipate in the car, completely evaporated, and the need to name the dog “Iris” (Dorothy reasoned because I love flowers by that name, I would love a dog by the same name) was gone.

It had been 20 years since we had owned a dog. Then it was all bound up with kids and swimming lessons and homework. The dog was sort of a friendly addendum — like the presence of one of your daughter’s chums on your family vacation. But now it was different; just Dorothy, me and the dog. Now when I come home from work in the evening, guess who meets me at the door, jumping up and down, wriggling all over with high-pitched yelps? I know it sounds like Dorothy, but she doesn’t jump that much.

Someone had jokingly predicted that what would probably happen is the dog my wife so much wanted would turn out to be best friends with the husband who hadn’t wanted it in the first place. Isaiah would admire such prophetic precision. It’s surprising how powerfully two little attentive round black eyes, surrounded by so much black (and now mixed with silver) fur, can cast a spell on a 64-year-old man. But there it is.

Can you believe it — I even worry about the dog when we go out in the evening. Is she OK? Is she lonely? Did anyone play with her during the day? How long before we can get back home? No, we don’t sleep with her. We tried it a couple of times, but she kept getting under me, and I thought I was going to roll over and crush her. She sleeps in her crate in the den downstairs, unless of course there’s a hurricane or a storm or a tornado watch or it gets really dark that night.

Just kidding.

Ruffin Alphin is the pastor at Westminster Reformed Presbyterian Church. He can be reached at ruffrocket@wrpca.org.