“Did you call?” my husband asked.
“Yes, but it’s too late now.”
I could hear the alarm in his response, even though it was only one syllable – “Oh?”
“Well, yes. We’re already home. I was calling to see if you thought we should get Wonderbutt a life jacket because we were at Petsmart.”
“Well, how much are they?”
“Oh, you don’t understand. I already bought him the life jacket. You didn’t answer so I just made an executive decision.”
“But it doesn’t fit. It was a medium. So, we’re going back. We’re going to take him with us this time so he can try it on.”
I could tell that my husband was extremely thankful that I was taking care of all of this without his involvement. Because: A) The thought of buying a life jacket for our bulldog seems about as logical as buying a kayak for a T-Rex, and Dos) trying to get Wonderbutt to try on different sized life jackets in the middle of a store registers about a 9.5 on his Ways-That-I-Refuse-To-Humiliate-Myself Scale.
So, well aware that my husband thought that we might as well build our dog a float out of crisp dollar bills for all of the good a life jacket would do, I toted Wonderbutt and my daughter to Petsmart for our bright orange fashion show.
Predictably, we immediately gained an admiring audience of Petsmart customers as I struggled to fit Wonderbutt into the next size up. It had to be explained to everyone that he likes to swim, but tires pretty quickly – usually when he has just made it to the deepest part of the pond.
Wonderbutt is short. But what he lacks in height, he definitely makes up for in rotundity. So, even the Large jacket was no match for his girth. We had to purchase the X-Large for him – the one with a very fit looking labrador on its packaging. I found this slightly embarrassing, but Wonderbutt did not seem disturbed by this in the least. Perhaps this was because he had absolutely no intention of keeping the thing on for more than 5 seconds.
“This isn’t going to work, is it?” my daughter asked, as we stood in line to check out, and Wonderbutt managed to wrestle the life jacket off his back and on to the ground.
“Sure it will,” I replied confidently. Okay, maybe not exactly confidently.
Back in the car, I watched as Wonderbutt got in the back and proceeded to attack the life jacket with the zest he usually reserves for eating carpets or sofa cushions.
I looked at my daughter, whose eyebrows were raised.
I closed the door and got in the front seat. Already, the buyer’s remorse was beginning to sink in. I pondered my possibly expensive mistake, then turned around to speak to my daughter.
“Uh, just make sure he doesn’t eat the receipt, okay?” I said.
And so Wonderbutt’s next adventure began…