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A Year in Jersey (II)

"You're jealous of the dog," says my shrink. "He has siphoned off some of your husband's attention."

Absurd! I think. But then, sometimes, I spot my husband singing to his pooch:

Salvy, we love YOU!
We LOVE you!
WE love you!
Sa-a-al-vy, we love YOU!

 And:

Salvy! Swimming across the deep blue sea!
Salvy! You'll always be a part of me!

 Around Christmas, my husband began murmuring about a new device. It was a camera you could install in your pet's den, so that you could view your pet, on your phone, at all times. The camera also had a small orifice, and the machine would spit out bits of kibble at your prompting. Plus: It offered "Dog TV" and "aromatherapy."

My husband spoke more and more about this, and I understood that he was leaving hints. He was identifying the gift he wanted me to pick up. The gift I could give him for Christmas. And I silently refused. I saw this as the potential death of romance.

In January, the pet cam appeared in our home. Now, at various public events, Marc will regularly pull out his phone to check on Salvy. "Hi, Champ! We love you, Baby! Good boy! We'll be home soon!"

It doesn't matter if we're attending a fancy dinner, or a big, serious lecture. The phone will come out, and it will hide under the table, and if it's not flashing KC Royals stats, it's showing us an image of Salvy.

The PetChatz cam has become like a drug--such that it can actually provoke crises. If Salvy moves out of range of the camera, you look, and you think that the dog has disappeared. Where can he be? (Obviously, in the far, non-visible corner of the room.)

When this happens, you must (falsely) assure your husband that you're not worried. "I'm totally fine. It's cool. He's just in the far corner, the corner we can't see."

And your husband will say: "Yeah, obviously. It's fine."

And then, within minutes, you'll find yourself ducking out of whatever event you're at, just to "beat the traffic." Back home: a sigh of relief. Salvy was in the far corner, just resting, all that time.

At night, occasionally, if I'm brushing my teeth, Salvy will stretch himself across my half of the bed. Claudius--usurping the King! When I move toward the bed and stare down at him, he seems to smile, as if to say, "I've won." He yawns. His eyes have a question for me, a disingenuous question: "What's *your* problem?"

And this--too--is my new suburban life.







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Comments

  1. Unkie JMay 19, 2019 at 5:41 AM

    One year from now, the babysitter will walk by that same camers with a butter knife in his/her hand as you check in from the dinner party...

    ReplyDelete
  2. ReaderMay 20, 2019 at 6:35 AM

    Yikes! Call the taxi!!! :-)

    ReplyDelete

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