Okay, I know exactly what you are thinking—Burt Ross has lost his few remaining marbles. Just two weeks ago, I wrote a column called “Peanuts,” and now I am writing a column called “Peanut.” Therefore, I must be in full-fledged dementia. Well, my reader, you are not quite discerning enough. The letter “s” makes all the difference. Please note that the column “Peanuts” had an “s,” whereas today’s column “Peanut” does not.
Let me explain. As you might recall, “Peanuts” was about that hideous packaging material that helps ruin many a holiday season, but the “Peanut” I am writing about today is my son Isaac’s 10-pound little dog which he brought with him from New York City to help bring in the New Year.
Peanut is a yorkipoo, a combination of a Yorkshire terrier and a miniature poodle. A more appropriate name would be “yorkipoop.” This tiny dog—all skin and bones and floppy ears covered with fur, sticking out of which are those two penetrating brown eyes—can convert, and did, a few handfuls of pellets into enough fertilizer to cover my one-acre property.
It has been around 20 years since I last owned a dog, doggie Anna to be exact, so old habits die hard. For days, I called poor Peanut “Anna” and constantly referred to him with female pronouns. “Come here Anna, you are a good girl,” I called Peanut, who clearly looked confused.
When Peanut first arrived, he (I finally got that right) checked out every inch of my house to make sure he approved. I can honestly say that when I inspected my home before buying it, I never gave it the once over like this little dog did.
Once Peanut finished with his thorough inspection, he made it clear the house was his. There was not a chair he did not sit in, a couch or bed that he did not lie in. For the first time in 36 years of married life, I shared our boudoir with some living being other than my bride.
Peanut has now returned to New York City. Waste paper baskets have returned to the floor. I no longer have to protect food on the table. And I can walk the yard without watching every step. But I would be a liar if I told you I do not miss the little Peanut.
