In The Dog Box

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction. No dog experimentation was done before writing.

 This story is about me, Nancy, and my husband, George. After unpacking and settling into our new home, I ventured up the narrow stairs to the attic. 

We had seen it briefly before we bought the place. The room sat empty now. Glimmers of light shone through the chinks and tears in the ragged curtains. I saw and tasted the floating particles of dust. Before, items of discarded furniture, boxes, and cases had proliferated and been enshrouded in sheets dressed as ghosts for Halloween. Every centimeter of the now bare floor, except where ghosts once stood, had a fine layer of dust. Wait, I notice a box in the darkest corner. I tucked it under my arm to check the contents later. Little did I know how the contents of this box would change our lives.

The attic had initially been a bedroom. I imagined it as a bedroom for our two young grandsons and felt up to the challenge. The previous couple had lived below until they died within weeks of each other. After their two children became independent, this room became a storeroom and wasn’t renovated with the rest of the house before selling. 

We brought up our four children in a larger home and had decided to downsize. Our youngest son, who had lived with us well into his thirties, met a young Japanese lady called Haruna. She had taken him in hand, and they married. Soon after, they were expecting. We are excited about our fourth grandchild. We have two older grandsons, 10 and 13 years old, and our youngest daughter has had her first child, a daughter, after many years of marriage. She is a nurse and has asked if we can care for her daughter when she works again after her maternity leave runs out.

I’m looking forward to it.

George and I have the largest downstairs bedroom, while the smaller one is ideal for guests. We want to convert the attic room back into a bedroom so that our older grandchildren can have sleepovers occasionally and, later on, the younger ones. Our downsized home needs to accommodate guests and grandkids. 

That afternoon, when George went to have his daily siesta, I put the retrieved box onto the kitchen table, dusted it, and opened it. How boring. It contained a sheaf of handwritten papers. Underneath it lay four notebooks. Someone in the previous family had kept a diary. Meh. My eyes fell on the neatly handwritten words on the first page of the papers. This had also been written as a diary but with explanations. I began to read. The previous lady of the house had authored this ‘manuscript’ at least fifty years before. She mentioned a book about training dogs. I expected the details of her story to contain the steps taken to train the family pet. Yes, they had a dog called ‘Mitzy’. A bitza – a bit of this breed and a bit of that . . . But this wasn’t about Mitzy. Oh, no! What is this? Her record of how she used dog training methods to train . . . her husband?! I shoved it back in the box, horrified, before stowing the box out of sight in the laundry.

Later, I couldn’t get the thought of what this lady had done out of my mind. I recalled what every one of our neighbors had told us. They loved the couple who had lived here. They brought over goodies and introduced themselves. They hope we will be like the last couple—wonderful neighbors and friends, a close couple who adored each other. It seemed that whatever outlandish methods the woman had used, she had a successful marriage, a cut above the dog biscuits of others.

I thought about George’s and my relationship. It had become tenuous now that the last of our four children had left home. George’s self-absorbed foibles needed a lot of forgiving. A good marriage is made up of two good forgivers. I know it must be more than that. Otherwise, I would feel happy . . . 

George has a habit of hovering around me when I’m cooking. Adding ingredients behind my back. Once, we had the family over for a meal, and he’d surreptitiously added more chili powder to the chili concarne. We all sweated, panted, and reached for water while attempting to eat the meal. I knew I hadn’t put in too much spice. My catchphrase is, ‘You can add it later, but you can’t remove it after.’ This applies to salt, pepper, vinegar, and especially chili. George ate quietly without looking up. We all focused on him and frowned. His silence spoke volumes.

“What are you looking at me for? I think it’s fine.” He relished another mouthful.

“You added more chili!” I accused.

“It needed it,” he said. 

My children rolled their eyes in turn. I whacked his arm. 

Later, my older daughter told me, “Keep Dad out of the kitchen when you are cooking. He’s a menace.”

“I nag him constantly, but he won’t budge. It’s a wonder the dinner gets cooked at all. He constantly distracts me or takes over if I turn my back. It’s so aggravating.”

At night, his stomach told a different story. I rushed to get the Alka-Seltzer, propped him up with pillows, said soothing words, and put up with him tossing and turning all night.

George’s classic time to go to bed is after a dinner party. Piles of dirty dishes and mess are everywhere. He farewells the guests like the host with the most - which he has been. He can be the life and soul until cleanup time. Then it’s, “I’m so tired. My legs hurt. I have to get horizontal.” He’s always done this.

I’m left to put away the leftovers, bin the rubbish, fill the dishwasher, scrub the pots, oven dishes, and casseroles, put away extra chairs, hoover under the table, and finally go to bed myself. 

George expects me, his younger wife, to keep a slower pace for him, tag along everywhere he goes, pick up after him, and run his errands. 

Except when I get groceries. He finally listened because we’d argue at the checkout about unneeded items he’d tossed in. He also argued over his preferred expensive brands. He was like a dog with a bone. Once at home, I’d show him my carefully planned, within-budget list and our existing stockpile of extra items he thought we needed.

However, leaving me to shop alone led to a worse problem. I opened our large freezer and just about fell over. George had surprised me by stocking it up to the brim with huge packets of sausages, mince, bacon, and chicken pieces, each packet containing more than what we could eat at one or two sittings. “It saves money buying in bulk!” I wish I’d broken up these huge packets into meal-sized lots. Large ones literally won’t cut it when frozen. I dislike cheap, inferior sausages. There are also the bags of bargain canned food he brings home and other specials he notices. There are just the two of us. Also, frozen meat still needs to be consumed within a specific time.

“We can have more dinner parties or barbeques,” he suggested doggedly. I expressed my most withering look at that idea.

Not to mention the scrutiny my lack of doing housework receives. I explained to him that I prefer writing more than spending my whole day looking after him and the house. He shops for plaques, which he hangs up. “My best days for housework are days that don’t end in ‘y’,” “Dust experiment in progress. Don’t touch the samples.”, “Both of us can’t look good at the same time; it’s me or the house. I choose me.”, “I don’t avoid housework. In fact, I see it all around. We’re just not speaking to each other right now.” 

I guess that’s better than nagging about it.

I researched the topic of using animal training techniques on men. I found a list of suggestions for training dogs that can be used. My mind boggled. Others had done it, not just the lady who used to live here. I came across a book, “What Shamu Taught Me About Life, Love, and Marriage,” by Amy Sutherland. 

Before writing her book, Amy did a study about how to train exotic animals for circuses, shows, and water parks. She found the psychology behind the techniques excellent and had secretly tried them on her husband. They had worked. She found that to change her man, she had to change how she interacted with him – change herself. As you instinctively know, nagging at a pig who won’t pirouette would be pointless; nagging a husband will not work either. The book covers three angles – ‘Self-help guide, animal psychology textbook, and memoir.’ I love this woman. I ordered the book after reading the reviews.

***

The most undesirable habit I wanted to eliminate was the helicopter kitchen aide George became during meal preparation.

For any undesirable behavior, provide an alternative so he has no time to do anything else. Reinforce with gratitude and a cuddle. 

“Darling, you’re just in time to chop up an onion for me.” I set him up with an onion, knife, and board. After that, I wasn’t sure if the tears were real, or onion induced. I rewarded him with a small bowl of chips, and he watched the news on TV. It wasn’t long before he came back to bother me.

“Darling, thanks for coming back. Please grate some cheese.”

I gave him more tasks the next day and then assigned him jobs for a few days after that.

By the time the week was up, he watched the news on TV without distracting me.

I cuddled him that night. “Darling, it is much easier to prepare dinner without interruptions, but you can help me whenever you want. I appreciate it.”

I patted myself on the back for not nagging and felt proud of us both.

Next came his taking over the hunting and gathering to excess. I took a massive packet of sausages from the top of the freezer, defrosted them, boiled them, and refrigerated them. We ate them for a whole week. Every night, we had a different sausage meal: curried sausages, leftovers for lunch, grilled sausages, toad in the hole, grilled again with melted cheese and tomato sauce, sausage and bacon casserole, leftovers for lunch, Hawaiian sausages, and lastly, sausage pot pie.

This was like rubbing his nose in the mess he’d made.

“What’s with the same thing every night?” he said.

“What? You’ve had different meals every night.”

“I’m sick of sausages, which are not our usual ones. I don’t like them.”

“But darling, I took a bulk pack you bought from the top of the freezer. The sausages are at the top. Maybe next week I’ll use a bulk pack of mince? Could you find it for me, please?”

“And have mince meals all week?”

“Depends on how many meal-size portions it becomes. Can’t refreeze it.”

“I thought you’d save it all for when we have guests.”

“Meat gets freezer burn. Quality, texture, and flavor are compromised. Best to eat it within a year. Four to six months, depending on the kind of meat. Chicken up to eight months. It saves to buy in bulk. Just means I’ve got to be creative with each large pack.” 

George frowned.

By the time I’d taken out packs of mince, chicken pieces, and bacon over several weeks, and then sausages again, he had come up with the idea to invite all our friends for a barbecue. Lesson number three formulated in my mind.

I made barbeque patties and marinated dozens of chicken pieces. All afternoon, I made salads. George cut up dozens of onions and peeled potatoes. Many guests brought something sweet for afterward, and many brought sausages. Oh, dear! I popped their small packs into the freezer.

George manned the outdoor cooking. 

After our successful dinner party, where George entertained us with funny stories, he hit the hay with sore legs. I switched on the loaded dishwasher and left the rest. I grinned at the shocking chaos and thought about how George would react in the morning. I will say, “Darling, I had sore legs and went to bed too.” Another lesson learned, for sure!

The following day, I had to stifle a smile. George rose before me and went out to the kitchen.

“Bloody, hell! What happened here?” He marched back into the bedroom.

“Darling, I had sore legs and went to bed, too. Sorry about that. You are so good at helping me in the kitchen that I thought we could do it together. Could you make me a cup of tea first, please?”

“If I can find some space on the bench to make it!” he muttered.

Later, after he had suffered through the cleanup, I hugged him and thanked him for helping.

“I hope you don’t do that to me again,” he said.

“Of course not, darling. We’ll do it together before we go to bed. You are a fantastic helper. You are right. It’s horrible waking up to an after-party mess.”

He looked at me with his mouth open. I believe he had no retort to such logic, immersed in praise.

“Darling, how about we go for a morning stroll. The park nearby is lovely.”

If praise and treats are losing their appeal, after much hard work, reward him with a walk or playtime. 

The result of the training meant we had both changed for the better. We became closer and I enjoyed my life. George had modified his behavior without me getting on his case. He learned some new tricks despite his age! Amazing. I’d love to tell everyone about what I did, but they may get the wrong idea. Treating one’s husband like an animal sounds barbaric. It’s more like treating one’s husband with the respect he deserves. All thanks to the previous woman who lived here and Amy’s incredible book. 

The End.