Lately, my humor has been lacking.  The burdens of life have crushed in so close and tight that no gurgle of laughter in response to the goofiness of that same life could escape.  I couldn’t taste the sweetness, or savor the beauty.  It took a big glob of mucousy slobber that leaves a trail of slime like a snail to clear the way, and open up the bubble around me.  God bless slobber.  Especially with a piece of kibble hanging from it. 

This gift came from Maggie, a one year old, 83 pound black Labrador.  She’s a big, furry, undisciplined beast.  Jumping up on her hind legs, she is taller than I am.  Okay, okay, everybody is taller than I am, just go along with the imagery, will ya?  I’m writing a column here. 

Where was I…  

We have three kids, two elderly cats, and two goldfish.  For years the kids and the husband have begged for a dog, and for years I have said, “No more living creatures until something goes to college or dies of old age.”  Hopefully, the kids would be the ones to go to college.  I just didn’t have it in me to care for any other being dependent upon me, or to clean any more messes.  I was empty.  Worn out.  Used up.  Nothing left to give. 

Then my husband started showing me pictures of Bob, a golden retriever featured on the website of Tony La Russa’s Animal Rescue Foundation. 

“Look at Bob.  Bob needs us.” 

I had to admit, Bob was cute, but my stress-bubble encased heart was untouched.  However, this time Jerry wouldn’t give in to my pained expression or tight lipped response.  One Friday he tracked me down at the playground , and in way of greeting me, looked at my with big morose puppy dog eyes. 

 “Bob needs a home,”  he said sadly. 

Then my daughter got down on her knees, and begged, promising all sorts of miraculous personality changes that would result in me spending the rest of my days soaking my feet and eating bon bons, while she took care of every household detail, if only, if only… 

Ahh, crap.  We were getting a dog. 

So, reluctantly on my part, and joyously on the part of the other four humans in the family (the cats were not consulted), we went to look at Bob.  Bob’s a looker, all right, but Bob has issues.  Seems he’s on puppy Prozac to cope with his anxiety.  Well, he’d fit right in, but Mom’s anxiety was going to cross the line into psychosis if we had a mentally ill dog.  Luckily, or unfortunately, I thought, there was another retriever perfectly suited for a family with children.  This one was a black Labrador, and the shelter was calling her Orangutan. 

I don’t know why they called her that.  It’s not like she has a big red butt, and picks fleas off her friends for entertainment. 

Anyway, she slobbered all over us, grossed me out, and won the hearts of my children and spouse.  Mine remained in its stress-bubble, but I saw how good she would be for our family, and I relented.  We asked if she responded to her shelter name, and were told that was the name they gave her there, but we were “welcome to change it.  Please, change it.” 

So Maggie, aka Orangutan, came home with us. 

She has destroyed the screen door.  Left in the yard with an open window at five feet above the ground, she stretched herself to her full human height, tore through that screen, and pulled a potted plant basking in the filtered sunlight out onto the patio.  She ate my glasses, and digs in the vegetable garden. 

And she adores us.  She slaps the wall next to her bed with her big strong tail every time we walk by, making a huge thumping noise.  She puts her head down so we can rub her ears, then rolls over for a good belly rub.  If we leave her home alone, upon our return she wags so hard her hiney goes one way while her front end goes the other.  Her eyes light up with love and joy, and she scarcely knows which part of which one of us to kiss first. 

That damn dog has wormed her way with those big muddy paws right into our hearts.  Our hearts.  She’s one of the family now. 

So my chewed up specs are looking kind of funny.  The enormous muddy paw prints are clearly ridiculous.  And that piece of kibble hanging from a glob of slobber, well, it’s a downright knee-slapper.  My funny bone has been found, and it’s currently being chewed on by a huge hairball of love.  Who knew.