Tree Street Tuesdays: Meet Boss

Boss!  Settle down!

Boss, SIT.  STAY.

Good BOY!!!

Wait, NO BOSS!  Where are you going!?

BOSS!  COME!!!!

It was a bleak January evening when I first met the Boss.  My two-year-old son, Thatcher had been through a full week of non-stop throwing up; the worst flu I've ever seen in my whole life.  I had spent every waking moment and  long night hours at his bedside.  Weary, I staggered over to the toilet bowl with his limp little body in my arms and held him above it so he could vomit.  Just as he'd finished, I heard the front door open and close.  The Glediator's familiar footsteps trudged through the front of the house.  I poked my head out of the bathroom.  Relief at last, I thought to myself.  Just then, something wiggled from within his coat pocket.  What?  A fluffy little salt and pepper colored head popped out.  Oh no.  A dog. 

(Side note:  The previous night, the Glediator had entertained the idea of getting dog.  I expressed that I would like one someday, but that I wasn't ready quite yet because we needed a new fence in the back yard and I was just so busy, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.  But if you know the Glediator, then you know that when he gets a bee in his bonnet there is no turning back.  Something we have in common I guess.  For example, one evening, Gleddy came home to find me with a crowbar in hand and a pile of rubble in what used to be the kitchen.  "We're remodeling the kitchen," I announced with a smile.)  

Ok, back to the story.

So, out pops this little dog and I just can't seem to find words.  My knees buckle and I collapse into a wasted pile on the floor, sobbing my eyes out.  But for the first time in a week, Thatcher cracked a smile.

For the next few weeks, I had thoughts of shooting myself in the head when our new puppy whined incessantly through the night.  "It's ok," said the Glediator, "he'll be my shop dog.  You won't even have to take care of him."  Oh please.  Need I even relate how that story turned out?

Three years and ten visits to the Pound later, Boss (or Boston, Massachusetts Gledhill as I've heard Thatcher call him), is still with us.  Boss loves to make a break for it if ever the front door opens, or an oblivious child running in and out from playing forgets to close it.  We can usually find him on an adventure at the park, but he's been known to visit the BYU dorms among other apartment complexes.  

Someone once told me that "we criticize in others what we cannot accept in ourselves."  I think that sums up my relationship with Boss.  He drives me bonkers with his wanderlust and daily urges to run away.  Maybe we are more alike than I think.  Still, at the end of the day, Boss loves me more than almost any human being I know.  For that, I must forgive him of all else.