How I lost a bet, and a dog

Amanda and I are fond of taking steadfast, stalwart positions on either sides of arbitrary, meaningless debates -- like, whether or not Dan Aykroyd is dead, and if it was Queen or AC/DC that sang Fat Bottom Girls. Quickly these become "bets," only we don't wager anything, which sucks, because seriously, who doesn't love the irony of Freddie Mercury crooning lovingly about big women? HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW WHO SANG THAT SONG? Which is to say, that I clearly have a superior understanding of these blindingly obvious pop culture talking points, and thus, win every time.

So it was with supreme confidence that I entered our latest discussion. The stakes were high. We bet a dog.

Background:

I've been begging for a pet for like a thousand years. At the outset, Amanda and I used to have cutesy couple quarrels about whether we should get a big dog (like I wanted) or a rat in disguise purse dog, which was her preference. But soon it became clear that my lovely fiance was simply delaying the inevitable. There was no resolution to this conflict, because the real issue was that she never wanted a dog in the first place. Not because she wouldn't love one, but because she thinks I'm not "responsible enough" to look after an animal.

Ouch. After I'd pleaded, groveled, given in to her demands and accepted that we might own some prissy little poodle (and reminded her, on more than one occasion, that I seem to do alright with the human being I'm responsible for every day), she still rejected my pet ownership application in the way that a mother puts her foot down with a petulant child. She might as well have taken a giant pair of gardening sheers and lopped off my testicles.

Back to the present:

The bet was about a campy musical version of the cult-class 80s movie, Heathers, that Amanda and I staged last summer (we called it I Love My Dead Gay Son: The Musical! -- it was so awesome). In our performance, after Heather Chandler dies we had two men dressed as giant bags of corn nuts dance around to some trippy music and drag the body off the stage. (If you haven't seen the movie, that won't make any sense, but don't worry, it won't affect your understanding of the story.)

We disagreed about the music the giant corn nuts danced to, one thing led to another, and before you knew it the two of us were practically shouting in the parking lot of some restaurant, calling former cast members on our cellphones, demanding answers, each exclaiming wildly that the other was insane.

Amanda was so positive that I was wrong. She agreed that, if I was right, I could finally have a dog. But, if I was wrong, we'd put off the decision for another year. Seeing as this is woman that thinks Dan Aykroyd is acting on that big movie set in the sky, I took the bet.

More background:

This is going to sound weird, but I think I secretly want a dog for the same reasons I want another child.

I was a normal 21-year-old before Edan was born, but the day she arrived it's like someone flipped a switch, and changed my setting from "Confused Young Person" to "Father," and permanently re-allocated a portion of my personal resources to loving, caring for, and looking after the wiggly new baby that kept wrapping her tiny little hand around my shaky index finger. But of course, these resources routinely go unused -- so, every day when I drop Edan off with her mother, there's a quiet, yet desperate little part of me that's dying for something else to parent.

Please don't take this as a sign that I'm somehow dissatisfied with my life. It's possible I only feel like this 'cause I'm 24, and everything is always a little unsettled, as I work towards whatever's supposed to come next -- that normal, straightforward life that seems just out of reach, over the horizon. And even if I really am missing something, I don't know that I'd be comfortable having another child just so I feel less guilty about what I can't give to first one.

On the other hand, that seems like a perfect reason to get a dog.

Back to the present:

Amanda and I got home from dinner, and watched the video of our I Love My Dead Gay Son: The Musical! performance, which clearly demonstrated that Amanda was, in fact, right -- for the first time ever. Mildly concerned by how upset I seemed to be over losing something so seemingly innocuous, she patted on me back, and told me it was OK. We'd get a dog someday.

Sigh.