I’m having a problem now that my darling hubs is back home where he belongs. I am suffering from terrible fits of anxiety and occasional bouts of jealousy. I am worried my darling has forsaken me. My darling Nixon, that is. Little traitor. I spend four weeks wiping up his pee, picking up his poop, refilling his water bowl and scratching his belly, all for him to trade me in for a larger, hairier, human.

Granted, the hubs is not to keen on the furball. But I’m beginning to think his gruff aloofness towards the pooch is all a rouse. I would swear on my dear angel boy’s soul that I heard the distinct murmuring of “Good boy,” and “Who’s your Daddy?” last night when I left the living room.

And I find it peculiar that the man who, for years, refused to get up in the morning, no matter how many times the alarm clock rang or how many jabs in the ribs he endured, is now the first one up out of bed. He claims it is because he doesn’t want to have to clean up puppy poop, but I’m starting to think otherwise. Perhaps it is because he enjoys little Nixon’s exuberant greetings after a long night in the kennel.

What really worries me is this morning, my hubs was sitting on the bed when I noticed him patting it, and telling me to come on and hurry up.

Stupid me, here I thought the hubs wanted a quicky, to get the blood pumping. Not entirely averse to the idea, I respond.

Turns out he was talking to my dog, trying to get him to jump on the bed.

Apparently a quick round of tug-o-war is more stimulating than a roll in the sheets with his willing wife.

Like I said. I’m suffering from terrible fits of anxiety and occasional bouts of jealousy…