TEAM LAST CALL

“Oh, look at the little three-legger!” my wife squealed in a voice that I knew meant danger. It was a voice that said, “What we need in our house right now is one more brain-damaged animal.”

I knew the voice well. That sweet, irresistible voice is my wife’s trump card. No matter what we’re arguing about, when the voice comes out, the discussion is as over as Kathy Gifford’s career.

Here’s an example:

My wife: “So, I was thinking, maybe we should sell all of your books and CDs and your car and your birth certificate, and then I can use the money to buy new shoes.”

Me: “I’d rather take a bath in a tub full of fire ants.”

My wife (now using the voice): “Please? I’d really like some new shoes. And by the way, I double-checked my math, and it looks like we’ll need to sell your computer, too. And probably all of your pants.”

Me: “Yes, dear, that sounds like a good idea.” Later that day, my neighbors watch from their windows as I load my car with all of my possessions and head to the pawn shop, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, shoes, and a pair of tighty-whiteys.

So you can understand the futility of arguing with my wife about the three-legged dog now that the voice had come out. The best I could hope to do was distract her.

“I think my appendix just burst!” I said, dropping to the ground and clutching my stomach.

“It looks like it’s going to rain,” my wife said, stepping over me. “We’d better get Three-legger indoors before he gets all wet.”

Note the subtle yet important transition that occurred during that exchange. The dog was no longer referred to as the three-legger. The dog had simply become ‘Three-legger.’ Now he had a name. He was as good as pooping in my bed.

My wife squinted across the parking lot at the dog, which stood teetering in the wind like a cardboard cutout. I could tell she was sizing him up. Would the reindeer antlers we make our pets wear at Christmas fit onto Three-legger’s head, or would we have to buy another pair? Would Three-legger be able to make it up the stairs at night, or would we have to move our bed down into the kitchen? Would there be room for Three-legger on the bed, or would Jeff have to sleep on the floor?

I, for one, think that we have enough “special needs” animals living under our roof. Consider, for example, our senile cat, Mr. Puddy, whose immense fatness makes it impossible for him to execute even the most basic of cat duties, such as “washing,” “getting up,” and “not peeing on our furniture.” He spends most of his day sprawled out on our living room carpet, his fat spreading out across the floor like pancake batter in a skillet.

Apart from relieving himself on our couch, Mr. Puddy has a few additional less-than-desirable habits, not the least of which is his tendency to bite anything that is moving. He opens his mouth and comes charging like an angry slug in slow-motion, his head wobbling from side to side in nearsighted confusion.

So, to summarize, Mr. Puddy is an extremely old, extremely obese cat who can’t clean himself, pees on our furniture, and likes to bite us. While some people (me) might argue that Puddy’s time on this earth has expired, others (my wife) would argue that the logical solution is to invest lots of money in cat anti-depressants, which she then must force down Puddy’s throat as I try to hold him down and get all the skin clawed off of my forearms.

Just to balance things out, we also have an extremely tiny, extremely needy kitty, Maggie, who at all times must have at least one part of her touching one or more parts of you. Which is fine, unless her part is a claw and your part is your bare stomach while you’re sleeping.

If she can’t manage to wake you up by carving her initials into your skin, Maggie will resort to using the little air-raid siren lodged in her throat.

“Reeeeeeaaaaaeeeearrrrrrrr!” says Maggie at 3 a.m.

“Aaaack!” says my wife, shooting straight up in bed and smashing me in the face with her elbow.

“Hoooo!” I say, falling out of bed and onto Mr. Puddy.

“Errrrr!” says Mr. Puddy, biting my leg.

“Roo! Roo! Roo! Arrrooooo!” says our dog, Henry, adding, “Arf! Arf! Arf!” and “Yap!”

Faithful readers of my column (by which I mean my mother) will remember the article I wrote about Henry last February. For those who missed it: imagine one of those wind-up toys shaped like chattering teeth. Now imagine that toy powered by a jet engine. Cover it with fur and put one of your favorite shoes in its mouth, and you’ve got Henry.

Could our house possibly contain another “challenged” animal? And more importantly, could my self-esteem handle me being knocked down from No. 4 to the No. 5 slot on my wife’s priority list by a three-legged dog?
As she marched across the parking lot to retrieve our new baby, my wife was stopped short by the call of a woman from an adjacent house.

“C’mere, Bonkers,” called the woman. “Here, boy!”

And just like that, our Three-legger went galloping away (ba-da-bump, ba-da-bump) into the arms of another family. My wife spun around and got back into the car without a word.

As we drove to the mall, I waited, and waited, and waited, and there it was – my wife started sniffling.

“It’s OK, baby, we’ll find another dog, maybe even one with four whole legs,” I said.

“But I loved Three-legger!” my wife said.

“I know you did, honey,” I said, making a left turn towards the Humane Society.