I’ve desired a pet – specifically a Golden Retriever – for decades, but my husband persistently resists. “We’re gone too much,” he states. (we do travel a lot, but kennels exist) “I’d likely have to feed and walk it daily,” he gripes. (there’s truth embedded in that statement) It’s all good for him, though, because I’ve recently realized that, after many years of marriage…

I am my husband’s Golden Retriever.

Here’s the deal: Larry gets stuff out and I put the stuff away. Our tacit agreement regarding nightly meals is that he cooks and I clean. He’s a great cook, using every spice, skillet, and sauce  pan, not feeling compelled to be fastidious because clean up is my avowed forte. Further, if he needs an uncommon ingredient, Larry opens a cupboard or pantry door, scans for the item, then plaintively states, “I can’t find it.” And, of course, I roust myself from whatever I’m doing to retrieve the item from in front of his nose. Did I share that I organized the shelves, even alphabetized the spices, so my OCD self does know where stuff is?

I am my husband’s Golden Retriever.

I keep my eye on the ball. I keep our social calendar balanced. I shlep his stuff when we’re out-and-about. “You’ve got a purse,” he wisecracks.

I’m earnest, loyal, and true blue. While it’s not always apparent – sometimes my patience falters and I cuss and shout – my love is unconditional before, during, and after my hissie fit.

Nightly my hubby retrieves the coffee from the cupboard and sets up the automatic coffee maker for the next day. In the morning, I replace the coffee container in the cupboard above before I’ve poured us each a mug and seat myself for morning devotions as prep for the day. While it may seem silly to you, that his day-weary arms can’t lift a coffee can a few feet to replace it in the cupboard, remember this: he made the coffee as ritual, a dedication to our mutual well-being. There are no ‘honey-do’ lists in our house because the man volunteers.

Throughout each day I happily help him find his phone, the reading glasses he leaves around the house…even the occasional tool he’s left about when toiling on a project. I’m as dutiful and well-trained as he is.

I am my husband’s Golden Retriever.

I diverge from dogdom when it comes to begging for treats, however. It’s not necessary when both our names are on the VISA card and we have equal access to joint bank accounts. I am my husband’s equal, his partner for life… we’ve been together over forty years, peeps. We’ve relaxed into old age and won’t be parted, no matter what treat others may offer. Ours is a nice life, a partnership that will carry us into heaven.

P.S. My husband’s birthday approaches. Should I get him a golden puppy?