How I Lost a Bet, and a Dog

Amanda and I are fond of taking steadfast, stalwart positions on either sides of arbitrary, meaningless debates -- like, whether or not Dan Aykroyd is dead, and if it was Queen or AC/DC that sang Fat Bottom Girls. Quickly these become "bets," only we don't wager anything, which sucks, because seriously, who doesn't love the irony of Freddie Mercury crooning lovingly about big women? HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW THAT? Which is to say, that I clearly have a superior understanding of these blindingly obvious pop culture talking points, and thus, win every time.

So it was with supreme confidence that I entered our latest discussion. The stakes were high. We bet a dog.

Background:

I've been begging for a pet for like a thousand years. At the outset, Amanda and I used to have cutesy couple quarrels about whether we should get a big dog (like I wanted) or a rat in disguise purse dog, which was her preference. But soon it became clear that my lovely fiance was simply delaying the inevitable. There was no resolution to this conflict, because the real issue was that she never wanted a dog in the first place. Not because she wouldn't love one, but because she thinks I'm not "responsible enough" to look after an animal.

Ouch. After I'd pleaded, groveled, given in to her demands and accepted that we might own some prissy little poodle (and reminded her, on more than one occasion, that I seem to do alright with the human being I'm responsible for every day), she still rejected my pet ownership application in the way that a mother puts her foot down with a petulant child. She might as well have taken a giant pair of gardening sheers and lopped off my testicles.

Continued at ParentDish.