For years upon years, I’ve given The Husband fair warning that someday out there in the future – or by the time I turn forty – we will be adopting a dog. It was a topic that he tended to nod or smile or roll his eyes at and put forth varying levels of effort to assuage my longing. Sometimes I’d get supportive discussion of just which breed suits our chosen lifestyle and other times I’d get a list of reasons why a dog just does not fit into said lifestyle. To this I’d nod or smile or roll my eyes and put forth varying levels of effort to convince him otherwise.
Then, a solid three years before the deadline, this teeny, brown, Yoda-eared Chihuahua named Layla came in to our lives.
It actually started a few days before Thanksgiving with a phone call from Dallas, a plea to help our niece adopt a dog so that she’d have a loyal companion in her new city. Despite our best efforts to talk them out of it, we helped out and the adoption went through. We didn’t give the dog another thought until four months later, our niece, her mom, sister and grandma – and Layla – relocated back to Santa Barbara.
Then, out of nowhere, one Friday night, The Husband informs me that he has found our dog. Unbeknownst to me, he'd met the dog a number of times, saw that she played well with others, and caught wind that she might have to be given up due to housing issues.
Well, I’m no idiot. I freaking jumped on it! Who cares if we never considered a Chihuahua! Who cares if our landlords said no dogs! Who cares, who cares, who cares because THIS IS MY CHANCE!
Aaand I was a goner. Stomach flip. Heart flutter. Hiccup with the happy tears. Love.
In the hours leading up to Layla’s arrival at our house, The Husband’s nerves over inviting another being to share our space were getting the better of him. What if she follows me around everywhere I go? What if I have to change my morning routine for her? What if? What if?
By the afternoon of the first day, The Husband stops me as we pass each other in the living room. He lowers his eyes and sheepishly, barely able to speak, says, “I have a confession to make.”
“What? What is it?”
He pauses. The words caught in his throat, somewhere between not being sure he can say it out loud and not being sure he wants me to hear it in the first place. My efforts to coax it out of him were failing when it suddenly dawns on me and my stomach flips again.
“You…LOVE her, don’t you!”
He raises his tearing eyes to mine, smiles, and nods.
