Whenever I take Chloe for a walk, I don’t really think anything of it. I’m just a guy with his Beagle making the rounds. Those carefree days of wandering around town are over.
I’m not the type of guy who has to watch football and grunt or drive a lifted, four-wheel drive pickup in order to feel like a man. I’m very happy to live life exactly the way I want and leave all the machismo to guys with more time and money.
I’ve always thought of myself as the guy who doesn’t mind watching a “chick flick” but is happy to watch a horribly awesome Sylvester Stallone movie. But oh, how the tables have turned.
I can’t help but feel self-conscious and girlie while walking my wife’s new dog. Is “ashamed” too strong of a word?
How manly can a guy feel being led around by a Pomeranian?
That’s right, I’m the proud new owner of a black, poufy, prancing Pomeranian named Grizly. And yes, that’s “Grizly” with one “z.”
We weren’t looking for another dog, much less one so prissy. We got him from my parents, who got him from my sister, who gave him up because she had just given birth to my niece and couldn’t keep the dog.
He’s been handed off like a fuzzy, yipping football.
He needs a home, and I guess I’ve become the dog whisperer, sheltering wayward pets. Don’t any of you reading this get any ideas. There is no more room at the inn. Figure out something else.
It wouldn’t be so bad, but his cute factor is through the roof. It’s sickening. He doesn’t even walk normally. He prances.
He thinks he’s tough, too … like Bulldog tough. He isn’t afraid of anything and is perfectly happy bossing around the Great Danes at the dog park.
What’s even worse is the fact that at home he wants nothing more than to cuddle and be my best friend. I’m sad to say, it’s working.
Nicole hates it, too. My dog, Chloe the Beagle, only wants to sit with Nicole, and Grizly has to sit in my lap.
How did this happen? How can I renew my man card?
I do have a plan that might work. Nicole last took the dog to be groomed, and Griz-ly came home looking like a teddy bear. My idea is to give him a Mohawk.
Yeah, from the top of his head all the way down to his super curly, pom-pom tail. It’s brilliant. We’re going to go total Mad Max at our house. Oh, and maybe I’ll get him a spiked collar.
Of course, now that I write that down and think about it, the images playing out in my head are looking less and less masculine and more and more … weird.
I can’t win. I’m doomed to be “that guy.” As if stuck in a sitcom, I’ll hear the snickers and retort, “It’s the wife’s dog.”
Sure it is. Cue the canned laughs.
I just have to man up. This requires a new level of maturity. I think the only thing I can do now is accept this is my life.
I just have to start having daughters and buying salmon-colored dress shirts. I can play pretend tea party.
That is just how it is. Chao.
Jimmy Alford is a Messenger reporter.