Fun little story time. The original story can be found here – https://theinvolvedhusband.com/2023/11/28/the-challenge/ – but I’ll summarize with an update. Back in 2021, my friend Scott McWalter posted one of those harmless-looking, bucket list / life goals questions on social media. You know the kind — the ones that sneak up on you and make you take inventory of your creative life. I replied honestly. I had written:
magazine articles
short stories
stories that became radio dramas
stories being looked at for short films
how-to articles
product reviews
news articles…and on and on.
But there was one thing missing.I had never written a song.
Scott, being Scott, didn’t let that sit. He gave me an arbitrary but very real deadline — January 1st, 2022 — and challenged me to write one. At the time, it felt like a fun creative dare. Something to try, maybe fail at, and then move on. That little challenge turned into a song called “Country Cause of You.” That song was recorded by Rick Stavely and the incredible Tabor Creek band. Even wilder? It cracked the Top Ten on the Canadian Indie Country Countdown. Yeah. That happened. I still have moments where I shake my head at how a casual comment turned into something very real, very public, and very meaningful. It reminded me that sometimes we don’t avoid things because we can’t do them — we avoid them because we’ve simply never tried. Which brings me to why I’m writing this post. A New Chapter for The Involved Husband. Going forward, I’ll be sharing songs here — songs I’ve written, songs I’ve produced, and projects I’m involved in from the songwriting side of my creative life. This doesn’t replace the heart of The Involved Husband. If anything, it expands it. Being involved isn’t just about marriage, parenting, or showing up at home — it’s about saying yes to growth, creativity, and the unexpected paths that open up when someone challenges you to try something new. Sometimes that looks like learning how to better support your family. Sometimes it looks like writing a country song you never planned on writing — and watching it take on a life of its own. I have started a YouTube channel to collect some of these productions. “My Dog Bit Santa on the A$$ is the first one I’ve uploaded. I hope you enjoy, thanks for being here. More music coming soon.
Anyone who has been married or in a relationship for a long time will know what support is. When your spouse is trying something new it’s your duty to get behind them and help in any way possible. You may not agree with their decision or even believe it will work but if their mind is made up you need to support and back them 100%. For me these little plans usually come and go, like that time she decided we were going to use scent free laundry soap, or start a cardboard recycling program to help save the world – you betcha girl, I’m with you to the end. So imagine my trepidation when she included me in “our” new years resolution to improve physical fitness. It actually sounded simple enough at first. We were already eating pretty well so all I had to do was join her doing something called “planking”. Nothing to it, I’m with you sweetheart, sunshine, oh light of my life! I don’t know what a plank is but I see boards just lay there, I can do that! For those that don’t know, a plank is basically a pushup without moving. After she explained it to me I figured this had to be the silliest, easiest exercise known to mankind. “You mean, I get in a push up position and then don’t actually do any pushups?” I was incredulous. The world record for holding a plank is 8 hours; she suggested we start with 30 seconds. I scoffed. I shouldn’t have. I confidently got down on the floor while she got the timer set, dreams of my new rock hard abs dancing through my head. She said “ok, GO!” And I lifted myself up, making sure my back was square, and I waited , wondering why the world record was only 5 hours for this. After some time passed I noticed that my stomach muscles were complaining a bit and wait – did my arm just shake slightly? Hmmm, pay attention… yep there it is again, more pronounced – my arms definitely have started to shake. “How much time?” I asked, starting to doubt my original estimate of an hour duration for my first ever plank. “20 seconds to go” she said. WHAT? That can’t be right, I have to get that timer checked. I can’t possibly have only been doing this for ten seconds? My stomach muscles are really starting to let me know that something is wrong. They have gotten used to being relaxed in a sitting position, covered by the cushy layer of warmth I have developed over the years. My stomach muscles are spoiled to be honest. I didn’t treat my children as well as I treat them. As my wife called out “10 seconds!” I realized that if I was to continue my analogy comparing my stomach muscles to my children then I am now entering the realm of child abuse. The discomfort turned to pain and I noticed that my arms were not the only thing shaking now. Shoulders and legs also shook like the paint mixer at a hardware store while my stomach started a full revolt, threatening to just collapse and leave me in a heap on the floor. “Keep your back straight, you’re slouching, five more seconds!” she barked. She was no longer the sunshine of my life. At this point I was convinced that she was pure evil, the root of everything that is pain in this world. I’m also pretty sure she was laughing at me. As my wife and personal trainer counted down from five I glanced down, half expecting to see a pool of feces on the floor. Or at least a pool of blood. I actually would not have been surprised if I had found myself face to face with a small alien head as it ripped himself out of my stomach like the movie “Alien”. “FOUR!” She called out as I envisioned the alien climbing free of my innards. “As seen on TV!” Crossed through my mind and I started to giggle. “THREE!” the countdown continued and the giggles increased, apparently the pain has made me delusional. “Hi little guy!” I imagined I’d say to my new friend as he peered out of my intestines. I’m laughing harder now. This chuckling did not match up well with the shaking the rest of my body was already doing and it occurred to me that this whole fitness thing was a terrible idea. I have now decided that I would rather actually walk a plank at knife point than do these planks any longer. “TWO!” I’ve really got to check that timer, either that or she is just messing with me now. There is no way time is passing this slowly. Kind of a mean thing to do for someone that supposedly loves me. I also realized at this time that I wasn’t breathing. In fact I don’t even remember the last time I had taken a breath. Have I been holding it this entire time? Shouldn’t I be dead? “ONE!” She continued the painfully slow countdown and I started to do the math on when I could quit and not be considered cheating. Acceleration is 9.8 meters per second squared so if I dropped now I should be down about the time she says stop. How long are my arms, how far to the floor? Should I allow for air resistance? So many questions but I decided I was close enough to let myself go, anticipating the sweet relief of giving in to gravity. As she shouted out “DONE!!” I was already about halfway to the floor and I realized two things: 1 – my math was dead on, and 2 – my arms no longer worked as expected, meaning my face was about to be the first thing to meet the relief of the floor. As I laid in a sobbing, laughing, sweating, heaving pool on the floor I did an assessment to see if I had a bleeding nose. Apparently the human nose is not designed to stop the body from a free fall, which is pretty poor engineering I would say. I did not dare look down further to see if there were any other fluids leaking onto the carpet. This was her idea, she can have cleanup duties – I’ll let her figure out which towels to use for this mess too. Hour later, after the stomach pains subsided and I regained the use of my arms, I stood in front of the mirror (which showed absolutely zero improvement I might add) and quietly considered moving to Tibet. However I am not a quitter! (or I am not allowed to quit, thats kinda the same thing isn’t it?) With the same resolve that allows a woman to have another child after enduring the pain of child birth I too decided I can press on. I mean, I am only 7 hours, 59 minutes and 30 seconds off of the record, right?
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I work with dogs for a living. A lot of dogs. Usually in the range of 100 per week. I spend an inordinate amount of time together in large groups and it’s really fun to watch the socialization of the group as they pick out friends and learn how to play together. I once read a study that compared dogs social skills and learning ability to that of a toddler and as such I have worked hard to treat them accordingly. I have also had great success with training and behavior control when treating the dogs more like children, setting boundaries and working within their level of understanding as opposed to trying to simply make them obey. My spouse on the other hand, is a teacher and has spent many wonderful years in the elementary school system helping shape the young minds of tomorrow. One evening I was talking about one of the silly things I had said to a dog and she exclaimed “I’ve said that to my students too!”. This of course has lead to several very entertaining chats on the similarities between young children in class and our dog groups out on a hike. Some expressions that we use are direct crossovers and their meanings leave very little room for doubt as to what’s happening. “Did you just pee?” Is a question that can be directed at either a child or a dog at any time, with obvious meaning. “Whats in your mouth?” And “Dont eat that!” are outbursts that are closely related to each other and are often used in conjunction. It is however considered slightly more acceptable to physically pry something out of a dogs mouth as opposed to a child’s mouth. Some of the less common sayings we discovered an overlap of between teaching and dog handling can sound a little strange when heard out of context. These include things like: “Let her have it, there are enough sticks for everyone.” When either group is in the forest, someone will invariably determine that one stick is the SUPREME stick and it must be defended at all costs, up to and including a physical altercation. Trying to convince someone that a lesser stick is equally attractive is usually a futile battle. Sibling rivalries is a noteworthy but expected dynamic with both children and dogs. The fact that we have both used the phrase “Stop eating your sister” come as more of a suprise. “Are your ears just for decoration?” or any other phrase to denote the lack of listening ability is also very common between both groups that we interact with. Of course there will always be a rebel who holds up the entire class: “Ok everybody has to wait. We can’t go until Stanley joins the group.” More often than anyone would care to admit, we all know who “Stanley” is going to be on any given adventure. We can tell. “Get in the van” and “get on the bus” are virtually interchangeable along with “I hope everyone went pee before we left”. Whether it’s a dogs wilderness adventure or a child’s school field trip, someone always has to pee five minutes into the journey. As we head off for our days adventure we can’t help but notice that some parents of either children or dogs have over packed, with lunches perfectly measured out and tagged with the students or dogs names. They often send extra treats as well, with some sending enough “for the whole class”. Other parents might send a used plastic bag full of unrecognizable food, with the top knotted shut. We both keep extra food on hand for those who are sent without. Both my teacher spouse and myself have to deal with multiple pupils with he same name. She has several ways of dealing with this, including approved nicknames or perhaps using a middle name to differentiate the students. With dogs we have the luxury of just referring to a physical trait tied to their name. For example, we may refer to “Brown Callie” versus “Spotted Callie” with my dogs. This is not a socially acceptable way for her to refer to children. On a more serious note, there is also a very strong overlap found in the effects of their home life on their daily behavior. If there’s a major change at home, we know. Breakups, new relations, new baby, a serious illness – every teacher knows when something has changed in the homelife of a student. We do too. A dogs behavior can change drastically if their schedule/routine/circle of people changes. I can see a dog acting out or behaving out of character and have a pretty good idea when there is some kind of conflict or major change in their life. Like children, dogs can really wear their heart on their sleeve. One final point that isn’t talked about a lot but is worth noting to anyone considering a career in either elementary school teaching or dog handling: You will deal with more poop than you ever imagined. I promise.
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There was a short wait to be seated for my wife and I at our favourite restaurant. As luck would have it, we ended up standing in the foyer beside a former coworker of mine, who I had not crossed paths with in the ten years since I had left the company. The initial “Oh hey, how are you!?” was followed up with the usual what have you been up to, how’s the wife, how’s the kids conversation. I learned that he had continued to work in the same industry but had, like myself, moved on to another company. Still married. His kids had graduated and are doing well. Normal small talk. Before we had a chance to chat further we were interrupted by the waiter calling out that our table would be ready in one minute. “Well I guess that’s our cue.” I said, signaling the beginning of the end of our conversation. “It was great seeing you again!” “You too!” I replied, “Glad you’re doing well!” At that moment, what would have been a brief interaction, the likes of which we all have daily, became something more. As I turned towards the seating area, the former coworker reached out and touched my arm. “Oh hey, do you ever see…” he trailed off, struggling to come up with a name. “Brandon?” I offered, the name of another fellow that had worked with us. “No,not Brandon. Oh what the heck was his name,” he continued, “He sat at the desk at the end.” I paused, now curious where the conversation was going, before clarifying, “The desk at the end, by the shop entrance?” “Yeah,” he replied, “what the heck was his name? You’d remember him for sure, he was the nicest guy.” I wasn’t sure how to answer him. He was describing my desk. Half jokingly I said my own name. “You mean Marty?” His eyes widened and he nodded in agreement, “Yeah, Marty! I wonder how he’s doing?”” Just then the waiter gestured “Right this way sir.” Unsure of how to answer my estranged coworker I just smirked and said, “Marty is great, I see him all the time.” He seemed genuinely excited, “That’s fantastic. Say hi for me next time you see him. I always liked that guy!” And with that my wife and I were off to our table. I admit in the days that followed I probably spent too much time thinking about the somewhat odd interaction. How could someone I had worked with that closely not remember me? Should I be hurt? Eventually one small part of the conversation jumped out at me: “He was the nicest guy.” Maya Angelou once said, ““people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Someone I had worked beside every day for several years couldn’t remember my name, face, or much else about me really. But they thought of me as “the nicest guy” I’m okay with that.
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I almost scrolled past the post. It was a normal “bucket list” kind of post that appears on all of our social media pages from time to time. The only reason I stopped this time was because it was a friend of mine whose opinion I respect that posted it and I usually enjoy his insights into life. “When your ‘maybe someday’ list gets too long its time to act!” The post said, “I’m curious, what’s something you’ve always wanted to try but haven’t gotten around to?” I thought about it for a few moments before I responded: “I’ve written many different things. Magazine articles, short stories, life blogs, product reviews, news articles, how-to articles, poems… but I’ve never written a song. I think that would be fun” After hitting send I never put much further thought into it, until later when I received a notification that the original poster had replied. He gave me a challenge and an arbitrary date: “Ok” he directed, “you have until January 1st to write a song. Go!” I kind of scoffed at the idea – I dont really have a musical bone in my body, I am not that great a dancer and my singing sends animals and small children running. These are not exactly the qualities one would look for in a songwriter. Life was moslty normal after the seed was planted – for awhile. I kept the thought in the back of my head though, counting syllables and listening to the cadence and rhythm of songs on the radio as I went about my day. Soon enough I had an idea for a song. The writing process was not unlike writing a short, poetic story – cadence and rhyme, making words fit, adding or subtracting syllables until it felt “right” and soon I had a pretty good outline. I used Google and found the beats per minute of some songs that were in a similar genre and Google also helped with the total word count expectations and song length. I learned about song structure and what a bridge was compared to a hook. It was a fun writing exercise that got me to think differently how words interacted with each other and I enjoyed it, tucking the final product into my “work in progress” notes folder where I assumed it would stay forever. A few months went past and purely by luck I ended up talking with one of our local musicians who has had some successes with a few songs played on Canadian Country music airwaves across Canada. We got talking music and I brought up that I had written a song. It actually very nearly did not come up as I assume that every artist has a constant barrage of people telling them they have a song idea for them, the same as every comedian gets the “I’ve got a great topic for you” speech. I didn’t want to be that guy. Fortunately however the conversation flowed naturally towards those topics, and soon I found myself forwarding my song lyrics to him. The following weeks we were in constant communication, sending ideas back and forth as we worked together to shape some other ideas he had been working on and I helped put together a song that he was having trouble getting to flow the way he wanted. Through all of this I had another idea for a song that I had not yet shared with anyone. It tells the story of a country girl and how she lives a country girl life because of how her father raised her. When I had it completed (lyrically at least) I forwarded it to him as well and asked what he thought of the new idea. The response was immediate: He loved it and he wanted it to be the first release from the new group he was assembling! The new song fit very well as a duet and his new band had brought on a female singer as well so it was perfect timing. The band worked together to finalize the music beds and before I knew it I found myself sitting in a recording studio listening and watching as the producer worked his magic to mix levels and assemble the complete song. To hear the lyrics I had put together come alive in music is truly a breathtaking experience. A date was picked for the “live” release of the song on a night that the band was booked into a local club. A film crew was on hand for footage for a short video about the song and we had many family and friends show up for the event. The video also required dancers and since it was a father/daughter song it was decided that I would dance with my youngest daughter for the release. I’m not sure there are words to accurately describe the feeling of dancing with one’s adult child to a live first-performance of a song that you wrote about a father and his daughter but it was completely surreal. That song, titled “Country ‘Cause of You” was released on all streaming platforms and climbed to number eight on the Canadian independent country music chart. Since then we have several other songs that I have lyrically composed, including one titled “Last Cold Beer”, which is also quickly climbing the Canadian Independent Country Music Countdown chart. All because someone made a post about trying something new, and followed it up with a challenge. Right Turn Clyde.
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Imagine someone who is well loved and respected among their peers. A real asset to their career and an absolute joy to their coworkers. Maybe this is someone with children who are enjoying their own levels of accomplishments. Maybe they have small children that they are helping learn to walk or potty train. Perhaps their children are school age and need some support with their homework or advice on making friends. This person may even have successful adult children who they have nurtured, supported and helped mold into fine adults themselves. Imagine that this person has friends that adore them. Friends who look forward to the next time they get to spend time together. Friends that would drop everything to help them whenever needed. Maybe this person gives freely of their own time, selflessly working with charities and fundraisers to help make the world a better place. By all accounts this person is rich beyond monetary constraints, with family, friends, co-workers and others who love them. Now imagine that this incredible person gets out of bed in the morning, steps on a small pad on the floor and then, in spite of everything they’ve accomplished and everyone in their lives who loves them, they base their entire self value on the number that pops up on that display. Imagine.
I recently come across a picture on social media that someone had snapped of an elderly gentleman standing in line at what appears to be a hardware store. This fellow had on a rather odd homemade-looking hat and a pair of rubber boots. He also wore a face mask. This photo was taken solely because of this gentleman’s appearance and posted in a “joking” manner. The post then received many responses, all laughing and making jokes about his choice of clothing and, of course, his face mask. This gentleman has zero knowledge of the whole post, or even that his picture was taken for that matter. Here’s the thing – not one of the dozens of people poking fun at this gentleman knows anything about him, his life, or his circumstances that lead up to this moment. Instead of ridicule, I tried to imagine some possibilities of how his life’s voyage may have lead to this point: I thought about the “what ifs”. What if his wife of 60 years has just undergone cancer treatment and is in bed recovering at home and if she catches so much as cold right now it could kill her. This gentleman may not scientifically know if the mask will help but it certainly can’t hurt and he’s damn sure going to do everything he can to protect his sick wife. Perhaps he had slipped on his comfy old rubber boots simply because they were easy to put on. Maybe he fondly thinks back to his favourite dress shoes and how hard they were for his old work hardened bones to get on and tie up. What if the last time he wore those dress shoes was to his best friends funeral last year. That was before his wife and taken ill, and at that time she had knelt in front of him, lovingly cinching the laces that his arthritic hands were no longer capable of tightening. What if the memory had reminded him that he needed to find some kind of slip on shoes to wear, but he hadnt gotten around to it. He hated shopping for shoes. For now, his boots would do. And how about that hat? That floppy, oddly shapen hat. Maybe it was sewn by the man’s granddaughter, and he thinks she had done a fine job for an 8 year old. He remembers how she told him that the hat “makes you so pretty grampa!”. His son and daughter inlaw had seperated shortly after she made the hat, and they had moved away. He hadn’t seen his granddaughter in person for two years now, but he still liked to wear the hat – he misses her so much. And now here he is, standing in line waiting for help with a mounting bracket for the TV. He needs it to swivel so his wife can watch her favourite show from whichever side of the bed she is on while she recovers. Right now thier favourite program is a reality baking competition. His wife is a fantastic baker and her cookies and cakes are delicious. He hopes that one day she is able to stand long enough to bake him a fresh batch again. Until then he will just wait patiently in line, minding his own business – while you laugh at his clothing. I bet he doesn’t give a shit what you think.
Anne took a tentative bite and chewed with her mouth partly open, the way you do when something is too hot or if you are trying to really taste something. She sighed deeply before her lip started to quiver. Unable to help it she burst into tears, building until she was sobbing uncontrollably. Normally a failed baking attempt wouldn’t invoke such an emotional response but this wasn’t just any recipe. This one had been passed down through several generations.
Anne thought back to when she was a child and could smell her moms baking wafting from the kitchen of their modest country home. She recalled how delicious these cookies were, still hot out of the pan.
She sniffled and looked down at the old, greasy faded sheet of paper that she had found among her moms things. The recipe was handwritten in pen and it was a fairly easy recipe, except for one line that read “a dash of the secret ingredient”.
Anne sighed and wished she had paid attention while her mother was baking. She didn’t know what the secret ingrediant was but it was the difference between “ok” cookies and the delicious ones she remembered as a child.
Her thoughts were broken by her daughter Mary walked into the house, home from school “Do I smell COOKIES??”
Anne hoped her crying wasn’t obvious, “Sure do kiddo – help yourself but they didn’t turn out very good”
Anne watched as Mary took a tentative bite before her eyes widened, “These are AMAZING!!” Mary exclaimed.
Anne smiled, sure her daughter was just saying that to be nice.
“Thanks sweetie. They were my favourite growing up, but the recipe calls for a secret ingredient and I never found out what that ingredient was before mom – I mean grandma – passed away”
Mary caught a bit of the sorrow in her moms eyes.
“Well I wouldn’t worry about it, these are the best cookies ever just the way they are!”
Anne smiled and started cleaning up, tucking the worn recipe card back into the box it was kept safe in.
The moment, and the recipe card, wouldn’t be thought of again for many years.
Anne had been sick for awhile and Mary was doing her best to take care of her. After several treatments and many long hospital stays, the time had come for Anne to be moved into palliative care for her final days.
After one of her daily visits Mary found herself bumbling around her mothers kitchen, trying to keep herself and her mind busy. When she stumbled across the old box of favourite recipes she paused before peering inside. The moment she saw that faded, worn card she remembered that she hadn’t had those cookies since she had been a little girl. The hand scrawled words “secret ingredient” didn’t slow her down as she whisked, kneeded, mixed and baked her way through the instructions, happy for the distraction.
The next morning she snuck some of the family cookies into Anne’s room. Her moms eyes were dim, but sparkled slightly when she smelled the treats.
“Oh sweetie you shouldn’t have”, she said weakly.
Mary helped her mom steady her hand to shakily take a bite.
Anne smiled and said “You did it! They taste exactly like I remember as a child! What was the secret ingredient?”
Mary smiled, her eyes tearing over, “It’s love, mom. The secret ingredient is love. That’s why your cookies were just as delicious to me as grandma’s were to you.”
Anne squeezed Mary’s hand, “You always were so smart. I’m proud of you my dear.”
Mary waited until her mother fell asleep before taking the partially eaten cookie from her tray and putting it on the bedside table.
While her daughter sat watching, Anne quietly let out one final rough breath and just like that, she was gone. Mary felt the tears start to roll down her cheeks as she clasped her moms frail hand in hers. Just then, Mary felt a tiny kick inside of her growing belly. “I wish you could have stayed long enough to meet your grandbaby, mom. It’s a girl. Her name will be Anne. And she is going to bake cookies.”
Jon had been standing on the bridge for hours, long since watching the sun go down. Rush hour traffic had faded and the world was getting quieter. Jon reflected on the many wrong turns he had made in his life, all leading to this moment. Failed marriage, failed career, failing health – it seemed to Jon that he couldn’t really do anything right. Looking down towards the water he sighed heavily. He turned and slowly trudged towards home where nothing awaited him except for the beer that would help him “sleep” – just like last night and the night before.
Approaching the end of the bridge he paused, an unusual sound drawing his attention. Listening closely he heard it again. A tiny yip coming from the long grass growing where the bridge span made its return to earth. Jon climbed down off of the walkway. The cardboard box was wet and damaged, laying partly in the water, duct tape holding it closed. Jon could see the box moving as the yipping continued.
Without further pause, Jon tore the box open to find two cloudy brown eyes surrounded by soft golden-red fur peering up at him. Their gaze locked before the puppies mouth opened and a raucous set of tiny yips and barks spewed forth. Wrapping the young dog in his coat, Jon headed for home with the soft squeaks of the now happy puppy cheering him on. The next morning, Jon called the local shelter.
“I don’t know where it came from, I found it under the 15th St. bridge” Jon explained. “I would guess its about 6 months old? I’m not a real dog guy so I’m not sure.” Jon paused before adding, “I can’t keep it, sorry. I can barely look after myself.” Jon said the last part with a chuckle although he really wasn’t joking. “Sure I can drop him off in an hour, thank you.”
Jon opened the basement door and his new friend awkwardly bounded up the stairs to greet him. Jon didn’t know much about dogs but he knew one thing – this one never quit barking. At least not until now. The puppy looked up at Jon and tentatively wagged it’s tail, like that was enough to make up for it’s all night vocal barrage.
“Come on dude,” Jon sighed “let’s get you out of here”
The shelter had a few forms for Jon to fill out and he reiterated that he knew nothing about the sad little canine. From the kennel Jon could hear the now familiar barking start up again; He wouldn’t miss that sound. Paperwork complete, Jon walked out to the street, thankful for the quiet brought on by the closing door. Life was back to normal. At least normal for Jon. He took a deep breath and headed down the dusty grey sidewalk. Days continued to pass, the boredom in Jon’s life unflinching and his health continued paying the price. Each day blurred into the next as he simply existed, not really living but surviving.
It was another unremarkable evening when Jon’s phone rang. He chose to ignore it, letting it instead go straight to message.
“Hi Jon, this is Kathy from the shelter. I’m just calling to let you know that the dog you brought in is going to be put down tomorrow. He is just too damaged to rehome. He has had infections and he is almost completely blind. His anxiety has him barking non-stop. So sorry Jon, I just thought you should know.”
That’s what the message was at least, but Jon never heard it. He hit delete before it even played. Jon grabbed a beer and turned back to the TV.
The sense of someone beside him caused Jon to awake with a start. There was something beeping beside him as well. And why was it so bright? Confused, he tried to sit up and felt a hand on his arm.
“Easy there fella, you’re ok. We gotcha.”
Now awake Jon realized that he was in a hospital bed. Monitor lines ran to his body and a nurse stood by his side.
“Whats going on?” Jon asked weakly.
“You’ve had a small heart attack,” said the nurse, “you’re lucky to still be with us. Your dog saved the day for sure!”
“My dog?” Jon’s brow furrowed.
“Yes, he was on your porch barking his head off. Your neighbor went over because of the noise and saw you lying on the floor though the window.”
“But… I don’t have…”
Jon was cut off by the door opening. A stranger in a brown uniform poked his head around the corner and looked at the nurse.
“Is he OK to come in now? He won’t shut up!”
The nurse laughed, “Sure, we are stable here, come on in.”
Before the stranger had time to answer they all heard a yell from down the hall. “Grab him!!” Jon instantly recognized the yipping as it grew louder, approaching down the hallway at a very high rate of speed. The door burst open and the barking dog bounced clumsily off of the door frame before launching himself onto the bed, instantly licking Jon’s face, his whole furry body wriggling and shaking. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Jon started laughing. The wiggling, wagging and licking machine didn’t let up. The Dog handler breathlessly arrived at the door.
“I’m so sorry, he slipped right out of his collar!”
The nurse smiled. “It’s fine, he just had someone he wanted to see.”
The dog handler interrupted, “We just got a call from the shelter, this guy escaped from there last night. I’m sorry sir, we just assumed he was yours, he’s been waiting to see you all night. We will get him out of your hair”
Leash in hand, brown hat took a step towards the bed.
“Not a chance!” Jon said, “he is mine. He knows it. I just didn’t know it.” Jon smiled and scrubbed the dogs head.
“How you been buddy? Good to see you.” Jon paused, “I hear that I owe you one.” For the first time in a long time the barking had stopped. A wet tongue gave Jon’s face another lick.
I curled up in my kennel and waited for someone – anyone – to come and visit me. It had been a whirlwind couple of days but here, alone in the quiet with nothing but white walls and cold cement around me, I am able to reflect. I had been so happy, with good food and lots of playtime. My owner loved me so much and we used to go on walks to the park every day. I don’t know why she kept throwing the ball but I always ran to fetch it for her, returning it in exchange for love and praise – only for her to accidentally drop it for me to fetch again. Sometimes it flew so far when she dropped it! This was our favourite game and we spent hours in the sunshine, just the two of us and our precious ball. When the little new person came into our lives I knew it was someone special. I was always so gentle with this tiny little person. It seemed to cry a lot so I knew I had to help to take care of it. The new little person was named Lucy and she would quickly become my favourite human. I watched her as she grew to where she could crawl on all fours, and soon even walk on her back two legs, a trick I never quite mastered! Her new found mobility really made our playtime more fun and Lucy and I grew to be best friends. I really had the greatest life with my loving owner and my little buddy who cuddled me as I watched her fall asleep every night. One day we had a new person come to our house. I named this one “Bad Person”. Bad Person never liked me and was only nice while other people were around. When we were alone, Bad Person was mean to me. Sometimes dragging me by the collar to throw me outside. Sometimes Bad Person even hurt me. I hate Bad Person. The thought of Bad Person has made me uncomfortable so I stand up and turn in a tiny circle in my cramped quarters. This kennel really makes me miss my little best friend’s bed. I put my head on my paws and sigh again, my thoughts turning back to the recent events. I had been sleeping on the couch when I felt something touch my tail. Before I was fully awake my tail was yanked hard, almost pulling me off the couch. It must be Bad Person! This time it has gone too far! Enough! I turned and snapped, vowing to show Bad Person I wasn’t to be messed with! Except it wasn’t Bad Person at all. It was my little Lucy! I knew I had done something wrong the moment Lucy screamed. I was so confused, I ran to hide as my owner was yelling and the screaming continued. It was all a blur. How could I hurt my precious Lucy! I would die for her! How could I be so stupid! I had been so sure it was Bad Person behind me! My thoughts are broken again, this time by voices and footsteps coming down the hall. People! I need to show them how sorry I am! How I will love my little Lucy forever! The white coats appear and I realize it is not my owner, or my Lucy, coming to see me. I had made such a mistake, my own people do not love me anymore – they wont even come and visit me. I peer up through the bars and try to muster a small tail wag. The kennel door is opened and one of the white coats coaxes me out. This one seems nice enough, the voice is soothing. I recognize “good boy” out of the jumble of words. Suddenly I feel the small prick of a needle in my leg – I’ve had enough shots to know that needles are ok so it doesn’t bother me. Maybe if I’m brave and be good my people will come back? This needle makes me feel funny right away though – not like the others. Suddenly I am so sleepy. I need to lay my head down for a short nap. I hope that when I wake up my people will be there again. It’s so cold and lonely here. As I close my eyes and let the darkness wash over me I have one final thought. “I’m sorry I hurt you Lucy. I love you.”
The Involved Husband 