Humm Column: Menopausal Woman of the Corn

’Til MilkBone Do Us Part

By Linda Seccaspina, Columnist, theHumm

April 2014

At 62 with a trail of bad relationships, I have no interest in listening to a male voice tell me what I can or cannot do any longer. For once in my life, I want a companion that is silent and loving, so I have chosen my dog to share my remaining years.

My dog eats what I give him and does not demand that I shop for probiotics or buy him organic items. If I choose not to take a bath one day, my best friend will not care, and actually prefers the smell of freshly cooked meat over the scent of Victoria's Secret.

No longer do I worry about little white lies, because if I catch him doing something wrong he simply lowers his head, maybe he gives me his paw. He neither asks for the remote, nor demands hours of TV sports, and when I get annoyed with his behaviour I immediately send him outside.

I no longer have to share my smoothies, and the worst I have to put up with is his occasional sloppy drinking out of the toilet. He never throws an insult, or puts me down in front of his acquaintances. Heck, his friends think I'm great because I play fetch and carry spare tennis balls.

He isn't on Facebook or Instagram. He doesn't know how to take a selfie, but he does like watching other dogs on YouTube. You really can't call that porn.

He doesn't chase after other women. The only thing he runs after is a stick. He knows I don't want anything to do with his saliva-ridden rubber pig. No one is offended if he scratches in public. Neither of us are masters of recycling or niche consumerism.

My dog never complains about hating his job. He doesn't insist on jogging at five in the morning. After a rough day at the park, he just falls asleep. I don't need to carry on a mindless conversation. There are no stacks of books in the bathroom for leisurely reading - his mantra is: "when you gotta go, you gotta go"! There are no brochures for "dream-like" vacations, because there are only so many ways you can enhance the image of a squatting dog.

Am I living in idiocy? Not really. I appreciate the fact that he has body hair and thank my stars that he doesn't wear skinny jeans. Sometimes his social intelligence leaves me baffled, but in my heart I know this truth. If he or any one of my ex-companions were left in a cold garage for eight hours, I know who would be the happiest to see me.