You know those people you see on second tier talk shows who rant about their dogs like they are an actual member of their family? These are the people that buy them bottled water and take them to doggie beauty parlors and provide them with a team of walkers, a masseuse, and a psychologist.
I’m sure you can guess where this story is going.
I used to laugh at those people too. I’d enjoy pointing and staring with the best of them, confident that I would never turn into someone quite so freak-errific.
Now its your turn to point and stare at me.
My problem is this: our wedding is in Palm Desert, CA. Oliver is not a “handbag dog”; i.e. I can’t throw him into my fake Louis Vuitton caryall from Canal Street and parade him through the city. He weighs 50 pounds and he’s a Basset Hound, so he’s also quite long. Fitting him under our seat on the plane is not an option. I’m way too out of my mind paranoid to ever put him under the plane, so, needless to say, he’s not coming to the wedding.
“Stop being so ridiculous” is all Greg can offer me in my desperate moments of bridal sorrow.
Through Mary, my communicator, I’ve spent the past 30 minutes trying to apologize to Oliver about the fact that he would not be able to come to the wedding and be our ring bearer as we had originally promised him.
I don’t expect anyone else to understand my sadness over this fact, but if brides are allowed to freak out over the shade of their napkin being a hue off from slate or that the band began playing 78 seconds before they were
supposed to, I feel somewhat entitled to have a mini-freakout over Oliver.
Me: How can you not care about the fact that Ollie isn’t going to be there on such an important day?
Greg: Of course I care, but what do you want me to do? Rent a private plane?
Me: Well, couldn’t we look into that Marquis Jet thing? I think they were on an episode of the Apprentice.
Greg: blank icey stare
Me: So, is that a no?
Oliver isn’t coming. Sigh.