There are moments when I'm pretty sure we've lost our minds -- my husband's and mine, our collective minds.
When we were newly married -- AGES ago, people had barely been invented -- I told Dave he was a collie. This was a compliment. Kinda. What I meant was that he wasn't a labrador retriever -- the kind of dog who poops the Persian and you tell him no and swat his nose and, within seconds, he's tail-wagging and leg-humping once more.
No. Dave was a collie, meaning he was sensitive, easily all busted up, slinking with contrite pout and love in his heart -- a la a collie.
I'd never had a collie. I'd always had lab type dogs -- and dated lab type men.
We already have a doggie. Did I mention that? And a cat? And four kids? And a messy house? And a wild yard? And ...
I peek at this collie rescue site. I mention it to Dave. He says, "Are you crazy? Okay I'll look at the site."
The collies -- his kindred spirits.
We go out -- just to look. The collie rescuer has sad, abandoned brother collies -- found roadside in, like, 'bama.
Dave wants both.
We can't break them up. They're brothers. (This is sensitivity a la a collie.)
Okay, okay. Both.
And so that's how we have two collies we're adopting ...
And so that's why we will soon have a house buried in fur.