I almost asked the sales clerk behind the counter. Shame — and the thought of further public embarrassment — kept me from it.
I was flipping through a catalog in the high-end furniture store. Looking through pictures of rugs that weren’t on the floor. This one? No, too light. That one? Nice, but the pattern is too static. It would never hide anything.
I was about to drop some cash on a rug for the living room. My wife has been wanting one for a while. A replacement for the one we threw away.
Why did we throw it away? Ha! Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Like the one I wanted to ask the retail clerk as I thumbed through the catalog gasping at prices and agonizing over what would go with the sofa and the wall color and my general mood and the futility of it all.
As I struggled with the decision, I nearly asked, “So, what’s it like buying furniture if you don’t have a dog? Must be really easy, huh?”
But I chickened out.
It’s an honest question. A fair one. Because the reason the old rug bit the dust IS the dog. She is prone to the occasional losses of the proverbial lunch (… or breakfast … or dinner.) The rug had become her de facto launching pad. Her place of comfort and respite. Where she went to do the deed. It didn’t happen that often, but you don’t need “often” to ruin a rug. You just need once or twice.
“Do people without animals get to just walk around the store and pick anything they want?” I wanted to ask the lady. “Can they just, like, focus solely on the furniture?”
I was curious. I wanted to know. Sometimes I dream about it — a dog-free world, where you don’t chose everything you own based on a K-9’s propensity to ruin it.
My wife has always talked about a white sofa. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” she sighs. “Alas, it’s not to be. We are the owner of a shedding beast.”
A BROWN shedding beast.
She is a prolific shedder. World class. We call the tumbleweeds that roll across the plains of our dining room floor “puppies.” They dance about until someone chases them down. Don’t turn around, though! The dog is scratching herself, giving birth to new ones. Hair flies off like clippings from a lawnmower.
“I mean, it must be easy picking stuff, right?”
I just wanted a little glimpse into another world — a parallel universe. But I worried the sales clerk might judge me. Might turn up her snooty nose and reply: “Buying furniture without animals, sir? What ever do you proletariat mean?”
“Oh, you know. Is it easy, or FUN! I mean, do those ‘people’ get happy smiles on their faces when they pick out stuff? Do they cry? Because we do a lot of crying when we furniture shop. My wife actually sobs. She knows we’re only keeping it temporarily … until something ‘happens.’”
But the sales clerk would probably snicker: “Sir, may I ask what your barbarian, jungle-dwelling dog does to your furniture?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Eats something foul and rank in the yard and then … what’s polite speak for this? … you know, yacks all over the rug. Or eats a corner of the rug, then realizes it doesn’t agree with her or that she’s going to be in trouble, and then yacks it up on the section she didn’t eat. You know … normal barbarian stuff like that.”
But that would make my dog sound uncivilized. Uncultured. Even uncontrollable. A beast! So I didn’t ask anything. Got to preserve some dignity. (Not sure if it’s hers or mine.)
We picked a nice rug. Lots of muddled colors. Lots of patterns and natural “splotches.” It’s not the one we wanted, but it’s the one that fits us. Fits our house. Fits our life.
We’re dog people. We live with a beast, and there’s no apologizing for it.
We carefully rolled out the rug we bought and positioned it just right under the coffee table. My wife smiled. It was a good feeling. Everyday I race home at lunch to check it out. “Lily, Lily, tell me you didn’t yack on the rug! Tell me you didn’t eat a corner!”
I wonder about decorating that fairy-tale house. The one free of a dog. But I just can’t imagine it. Too clean. Too easy. Too light. Most of all, too empty.