Confrontations with the truth can be so startling it takes time to process the impact.
We adopted Archibald “Archie” Wallace last February 5 from the Society of Humane Friends in Lawrenceville. They had received this beautiful parti poodle from a group of dogs rescued from a puppy mill in Coweta County.
(I documented this joyous moment for Archie and for us in this critically acclaimed post.)
So much has changed in the past year, it’s hard to fathom.
Archie went away to Mrs. Teri’s boarding school where he learned how to obey commands and live in a house with humans rather than just running amok with 150 other dogs. He began to receive nightly cuddles from my Darling Beloved taking a lot of pressure off me to be all cuddly. He logged hundreds of miles walking with me in the pre-dawn hours in this mysterious ritual in which we always end up right back where we started.
His grooming took on more of the poodle style to match his purebred status. His food was changed to reduce his digestive exflugrations and improve our indoor air quality. He began to make regular visits to see Mama at The Sheridan, even interrupting a church service in the great room with a thwarted attempt at an ill-timed answer to nature’s call.
He learned to coexist with Winston, Carlton’s beloved, fluffy lapdog. He loved playing with Bonnie and Cora, two new friends who come to visit when our older two boys and their significant others bring their dogs. He endured the indignity of Christmas pajamas he was forced to wear when my Darling Beloved let the Christmas spirit and a need for a grandbaby get the best of her.
In short, Archie has been a very good boy and he has a very good life.
I have suspected for some time, though, that he has moved past me in the hierarchy of “most beloved creatures” in our home. Two weeks ago, when I arrived at my home after work, this suspicion was undeniably confirmed.
There at the back door, waiting for me with eager anticipation, was Archie… wearing my underwear.
I was stunned. Reading my reaction, Archie flashed me a look that said, “This was not my choice.”
“What is this?” I called out to my Darling Beloved. “Why is the dog wearing my best pair of underwear?”
My mind raced to try to understand what could have happened that would cause this solution.
“Oh, isn’t it great!” Carla cheerily responded. “It’s WAY better than poor little Archie having to wear one of those cones.”
That morning I had dropped Archie off at the vet for a biopsy. The incision required stitches, and rather than resort to the typical measure of preventing dogs from licking their incisions, the dreaded and highly unfashionable cone, my Darling Beloved seized on the idea of putting a pair of my boxer briefs on the dog.
“See how great they work?” she said, still not acknowledging my flummoxed countenance. “I just put them on him backwards and pulled his tail through the flap.”
I’m sorry to get so graphic here with articles of clothing I prefer to call “unmentionables,” but that’s not exactly what the front flap is for.
“Why did you get my newest and best underwear for this?” I asked, still trying to wrap my brain around all the implications of the dog wearing my drawers.
“I had no idea. They all looked the same to me.”
Clearly she has no appreciation of the nuances of a man’s underclothes.
“Why didn’t you just use a pair of your underwear for this ingenious solution?”
“No flap.”
Taking the dog out, which is my duty (pun intended), also became much more complicated. I had to undress the dog, take him out, clean up his business, bring him back in and try to put the underwear back on him, against his will. I was taken back to when I had to dress wiggly toddlers after bath time, only they didn’t have tails that had to be maneuvered through flaps.
Archie wore my best underpants for a week. He wore them so long it got to the point that I began to wonder if Archie was wearing my underwear or was I wearing doggie drawers.
Now that the stitches have been removed, and Archie is back to frolicking about au naturel, the pair of boxer briefs have been washed and put back into the rotation in my rigorously regimented clothing schedule. But the whole system has been disrupted now, and I can’t bring myself to put on those underpants even on the day they are scheduled to be worn.
There are just too many questions. Such as… Would I be cross dressing with the dog? Is there any canine residue? Could people tell by looking at me that I’m wearing the dog’s underwear? Would Archie catch a glimpse of me getting dressed for work and wonder why I was wearing his clothes?
So many questions.
For now I’ll just pull that pair of underwear out of the rotation until a laundry emergency necessitates they return to action. I don’t need to be distracted with such existential questions during my day. It’s hard to focus on the inputs coming at you when you’re wondering about your underwear or dealing with unwanted mental images of the dog in your drawers. It’s something you can’t unsee.
I also can’t unknow where I stand with my Darling Beloved. Clearly, Archie is a higher priority. He wears the (under) pants in the family. It’s his house now. I’m just taking up space and providing him a wardrobe.
My apologies for turning New South Essays into a tawdry exposition on male under garments. But regular readers know I process my weekly trauma in this space and that they may encounter unsettling content from time to time.
This kind of surreal experience could not go uncommented upon, and my unrepentant Darling Beloved fails to comprehend the breach of sacred trust, the violation of… of… etiquette, the transgression of the natural order of things by implementing a resourceful solution.
No, it’s not right. It’s not proper for a dog to wear a man’s underwear. It’s not decent for Archie to be prancing about with my unmentionables on full display. I mean, he’s wearing underwear as outerwear. It’s just not done.
Overall, Archie appears to be fine and seems to be no worse for (under) wear.
I, on the other hand, will have plenty to work out in therapy over the next few months. If you see me, please don’t bring up this whole unpleasantness.
I’d rather it remain… unmentionable.
New South Essays 