I Was a Bad Doggie Dad On Reality TV

Every good story needs a villain

Rupert (left) Photo by author.

When I was married, we had a small black terrier named Rupert. He was a good boy, but like many canines he had occasional stomach issues. I wasn’t fussed about this, because I reckon that any beast who treats a pile of aged raccoon shit like dinner at Nobu is going to puke once in a while.

My then-wife, however, was prone to catastrophizing, especially where our child surrogate Rupert was concerned.

“Honey, Rupert threw up again today.”

“He throws up most days. Doesn’t seem to bother him any.”

“It’s not funny. I think his stomach is hurting him.”

How could you possibly know that? So far as I could see, he was frolicking and knocking things over in fine half-witted fashion.

“Sorry,” I said. “But he seems okay to me.”

“No,” she said with the conviction of someone seeing an horrific future that could yet be averted, “We need to get him to the vet.”

I objected, but it was inevitable that I would give in, partly because I didn’t want to fight, and partly because if Rupert was genuinely sick I didn’t want her later telling all our friends that I’d killed the dog.