Black Lives Matter

When you’re married, all guys will tell you, it’s the wife who rules.

Maybe. We lost two senior greyhounds, adopted as seniors, about a month apart, not long after we lost a Scotty, also adopted as a senior, and our menagerie was slashed in half.

“No more greyhounds,” she proclaimed. “No more seniors.” It’s all too much to bear.”

But things change. You’re allowed, even encouraged, to read aloud to her from your blogs and books about dogs and cats. You’re allowed to look over her shoulder when she starts visiting Scotty and greyhound rescue sites. When she says, “Just looking,” and goes shopping for shoes instead, you go, “Uh huh.”

Then comes the day when she tells you, out of the blue, “Black lives matter.” “Yes,” you say. “Sure thing.” And now you have two pickup dates in North Jersey parking lots.

Meet Bat.

He’s only 13.

Meet Rock.

He’s just 2. And an ex-con. Beat that.

“Everything’s going to be all right.” What I tell her because I love her and know we’ll survive whatever it is that happens next.

We will. With any luck, Bat comes home tomorrow and Rock comes home Sunday. Hallelujah. Don’t laugh. We’re just turning the page. Again.

Please, Bat. Come home.


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