Happiness Really Is a Warm Puppy

It’s 7 p.m. My husband walks through the door and immediately drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged in the center hallway.

“Franklin!” he yells. “Franklin! C’mere, boy!”

Our 5-month-old puppy rounds the corner like a cartoon rabbit and barrels toward Sherrod with no strategy for stopping. He slides until he crashes into the open arms of my 59-year-old husband, who is laughing so hard his eyes grow sparkly wet.

“How’s my boy?” he asks, ­ruffling Franklin’s ears as he tumbles backward with the pup on his chest. “How’s my boy, huh?” Franklin erupts into a series of howls as he makes a rumpled mess of Sherrod’s dress shirt.

“Ohhh, buddy,” Sherrod says. “We’re happy to see Daddy, aren’t we? Yes, we are, yes, we are.”

I clear my throat. Sherrod looks up, briefly, and smiles. “Oh, hi, honey,” he says, scratching Franklin’s tummy. “We’re glad to see Mommy, aren’t we, buddy?”

Three months ago, we adopted 9-week-old Franklin from an animal rescue group. On the drive to pick him up, my husband insisted on boundaries. No. 1: “I’m not his daddy,” he said. “You’re not his mommy.”

Second rule: No sleeping on our bed. I’m reminded of that one every time Franklin crawls onto my pillow and slips his tongue into my ear.

Franklin is my husband’s first puppy in more than 50 years, which I didn’t realize until the ride home with Franklin, who sat on my lap as Sherrod drove. Sort of.

“Oh my gosh, look at him,” Sherrod said, over and over. “Look what he’s doing now.” He said this every time Franklin cocked his head, wagged his tail, or even sighed.

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“Honey,” I said each time our car veered to the right. “You can pet him when we get home.”

Our four grown children have wasted no time pointing out that both of us are fools for this pup.

Recently, they gathered around the refrigerator, all of them huffing and pointing at the photo display on the door. ­“Really?” Liz said, holding her palms to the sky. “They’re all ­pictures of you and Dad—and Franklin!”

Andy pointed to the only picture of a human under 50. “Your grandson’s feet?” he said, gesturing to a shot of 4-year-old Clayton’s bare toes dangling through our second-floor railing. “You have one picture up here of your grandson, and it’s his feet?”

When I smiled at Franklin as he slept in his doggy bed by the kitchen table, our youngest sighed. “Yeah,” Cait said, “you used to look at me like that.”

After Emily thanked us for giving her the baby brother she’d ­always wanted, we had to admit we were being a wee bit over the top. Our every phone call includes Franklin updates. When I pick him up from puppy day care, I text his report card to Sherrod. Last Monday, he romped with Fletcher and Marley and specialized in “being a cutie!!” On Friday, he played tag with Henry and “wrestled all day!”

Yes, we’re silly. Yes, we know he’s a dog. Yes, we understand he will never talk. Or so you say.

Here’s the thing. I watch my husband playing with Franklin and I see the boy he used to be. When you’re a middle-aged wife in love with your husband, that’s something.

Sherrod announces that he and Franklin are ­going out to rake the leaves. Soon, I hear repeated shouts of “Ready, set, go!” There’s my husband tossing his puppy into a mountain of leaves. Each time, Franklin’s ears flap like wings as he leaps and darts before jumping back into Sherrod’s arms.

“That’s my boy!” my husband yells, laughing so hard he can barely breathe.


Pulitzer Prize-winning Connie Schultz is a nationally syndicated columnist with Creators Syndicate and an essayist for Parade magazine. She is the author of three books by Penguin Random House: The Daughters of Erietown, Life Happens -- and Other Unavoidable Truths, and ...and His Lovely Wife.

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