My husband, Bob, has gone so far as to name our car.  He calls it Old Yeller.  And whenever I suggest it’s time to retire it, he lovingly pets the steering wheel and asks, “You mean destroy Old Yeller?”

We have a nineteen seventy something yellowish Chevy Blazer.  I can see the street whizzing by through the holes in the floorboard.   I hear little clinking sounds whenever we drive and if I look out the rear view, I see tiny pieces of Old Yeller leaving a wake behind us.

I really hate this car.

“It’s time,” I gently said to Bob last month, as we pulled in our driveway and the door handle came off in my hand.

 “Great!” he said and jumped out of the car.  “I’ll start the gas grill.”

I brushed clumps of foam rubber (the insides of the seat) off my pants.  We went in the house. “You know what I mean,” I said. 

“A woodworking show’s on,” he said, and picked up the remote.

“Sweetheart.”  I took the remote.  “Old Yeller’s had a really good life.”

“He just needs a tune-up, that’s all.”  He picked up the keys.

“It put itself into PARK while we were driving thirty miles per hour.”

“He stalled,” he said, fondling the keys.

“It stopped.  My forehead’s still bleeding.”

He stood and looked out the front door.  “I can’t,” he whispered. 

“It’ll be humane, honey.”

“No it won’t,” he said.  “No ceremony, no remorse.  Nothing.  Just a push of a lever and Old Yeller’s squashed like a pancake and dumped in somebody’s scrap heap.”

Late that night, I heard him get out of bed and head to the kitchen.  I put on my robe and tiptoed in.  He was pouring himself a shot of whiskey from a bottle we’ve had over ten years.  He drank it in one gulp.  After he finished his coughing fit, I held his hand.  He said, “If anybody’s going to put Old Yeller to sleep, it will have to be me.”

I knew then, I had to go against his wishes and take Old Yeller myself.  The next day, I drove the Chevy away and got back to the house around noon.

“It was quick, Bob.  Painless.”

“Old Yeller . . .” he moaned.  Then he went back to the whiskey bottle, picked it up, changed his mind, and put it down. He opened the freezer and found a bag of mini Milky Ways and began stuffing five in his mouth at a time.

"Honey.  Don’t do this to yourself,” I tried to take the bag away but he grabbed it and ran out of the room, but not before snatching the peanut butter and Ritz Crackers.

It took two weeks to get Bob back on track.  And that happened yesterday.  He was still in bed at eleven o’clock when I called him to come into the living room.  He was a wreck.  Unshaven.  Dirty.  I wiped the chocolate off his lip. 

“There’s something for you outside.”

“I need marshmallow fluff,” he said.

I took his hand and led him out the front door.  In the driveway was a car covered by a big brown tarp, which I theatrically removed.  There, all shiny and bright yellow, was the Blazer.  New mirrors, chrome, paint, engine, transmission and sparkling hub caps.   Painted in script on the side was, of course, Old Yeller. 

Bob was overwhelmed, to say the least.  He opened the door and saw the beautiful upholstered seats.  Although he was too moved to say anything, I got the biggest hug in history.  And though Bob refers to this as one of the best days of his life, I know it couldn’t have been half as good as it was for me.