“We can sleep together tonight,” Bob said, crying.

 

“And the problem with that is  . . .  ?”

 

This talk took place the morning that our puppy, a border collie named Becky, was to be spayed and then kept overnight. So until now, Bob’s been sleeping with Becky on the pull-out couch near the back door for quick-access bathroom runs. Usually Becky has to “go” too.

 

“I’ll be lonesome tonight,” he actually sang - Elvis style.

 

“What am I? Chopped liver?” He didn’t hear me. He had his face buried in Becky’s favorite toy – her binky. It’s my bra.

 

He was freaking out about arriving on time. “Before my surgery,” I said, “you set your alarm so you’d have time to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

 

“Don’t be cruel.”

 

“Bob. The Elvis-speak? It’s gotta go.”

“I’m in love,” he whimpered. I shouted, “NO!” But he sang, “I’m all shook up.” Finally, he took Becky, my bra, and left.

 

He called from his cell. “We never asked her to express her feelings about not having children.” He sang, “It’s now or never.”

 

Good thing our phone doesn’t show pictures or he’d have seen me smashing my head repeatedly on my desk. I said, “Have them freeze her eggs.” He thought I was serious.

 

Later, when Bob came home he was terribly upset. “They wouldn’t let her keep her binky.”

 

“It’s my binky; I mean bra. It’s filthy with dog spit.” He defended himself by reminding me he washes it daily with expensive lavender soap, then gives it back to Becky.

 

Later, the vet called. Becky was fine. The second we hung up, Bob hit redial. I stopped him. He said, “If she hears my voice, it will,” (back to the King) “help her make it through the night.” This Elvis schtick was driving me nuts.

 

I grabbed the phone from him. “I’ll call.” I pretended to dial and pretended someone from the vet answered. I said, “Could Becky come to the phone please?” Bob was worried when I hung up so quickly. I said, “Sorry honey. They said she was on the other line.”

 

Bob spent the day smelling my bra. Feigning compassion I said, “Want to talk about it?” I so wish I hadn’t asked that.

 

He crooned, “The chairs in our parlor seem empty and bare.”

 

“We don’t have a parlor.” He didn’t reply. I suggested, “Occupy yourself so you won’t think about her.”

 

So he cleaned Becky’s crate, alternately calling it the recovery room and the Intensive Care Unit.

 

We didn’t sleep that night. Why? “Heartbreak Hotel” kicked in. “Since my baby left me,” he sobbed as he sang, “I’ve found a new place to dwell.” I swatted his shoulders twice. Apparently he took that as drumbeats. “Down the end of Lonely Street at – ” I put our sleeping cat over his head. But I heard a muffled, “I’m so lonely, I could die.”

 

I considered smothering him with my “Eau de Becky Spit” scented bra, since he had it balled up against his nose anyway.

 

In the morning, Bob went to the vet to pick her up and bring her home. But they were closed at 5 AM.

 

When he did bring her home, a little after 9, I cried – happy tears – tears of relief that Becky was OK.

 

Bob gently and carefully placed her on our bed. He softly sang, “Love me tender  . . .  love me true.” Becky had her pretty face near Bob’s shoulder. And me? Well, I rejoiced watching the both of them. The song was fitting and actually sounded beautiful. He continued, quietly, “Take me to your heart.” Becky’s eyes slowly closed. “For it’s here that you belong.” I watched over this precious moment in time. “And we’ll never part.” Then I saw that Bob’s eyes were slowly closing.

 

It was a touching and exquisite scene I will never forget. They began snoring in sync. So I decided to continue the song. Without opening his eyes, Bob touched my hand. I whispered, “For my darlings, I love you,” and sang ever-so softly, “And I always will.”

 

 

Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, welcomes e-mails at sperel@saraleeperel.com