“What’s the matter with you?” asked my golf partners midway through a competitive match, “you’re an absolute wreck! You haven’t been yourself all day and your putting sucks! Now, pull yourself together! We still have a chance at this!”

They were right. I was a wreck. I hadn’t eaten or slept well in days. I was distracted by anything and everything and I knew beyond a reasonable doubt that when my husband found out what I had done, I’d be served with divorce papers within minutes, maybe seconds! If I could undo that one little thing, I would, but . . . I feared it was too late.

Over the past holiday season when impulse decisions pummeled the air like rapid fire, we (actually I, to be more correct) almost pulled the trigger on one ourselves. A twelve-week-old tricolor Bernedoodle needed a home. His intended situation collapsed since the breadwinner of the family lost his job and one more mouth to feed was too much for their already strained budget. When I saw a picture of the puppy, I was instantly sold. “Wally,” short for “Walter” (was it too presumptuous to name him?) would fit in perfectly with us. My husband loves four-legged creatures more than most two-legged ones and bringing a new, energetic puppy into our home may just provide our seventeen-year-old Springer Spaniel with a renewed raison d’etre . . . perhaps for a few more months, maybe even a year!

“Oh my gosh!” I gasped, “he is the most adorable dog I think I’ve ever seen? What do you think? Should we take him?”

Never thinking that Carl would pass on such an opportunity, I was shocked and disappointed with his response.

“No. No. We’re not getting another dog. When Rusty goes, that’s it. You’ve always insisted that he’s your last dog, so . . . No on the puppy. We’re done. You said that our next dog would be made of cement, would sit near our front door with a cement basket of cement flowers in his mouth and that his name would be Rocky. We’re not getting another dog.”

“But . . . ,” I began, not knowing how to oppose an argument I’d made for years. He’d thrown my words right back at me and I didn’t like the sound of them! But Carl was right! I really didn’t want another dog after Rusty. We’d be free. We’d have no restrictions or responsibilities to tie us down. We could travel, go away for a long day, a long weekend, two weeks, a month! There would be no dog hair to sweep up every day, no barking whenever someone passed by the window, no yard to clean up, no fleas to worry about. Thank God for Carl yanking me back to reality! The final word was NO on the dog!

The holidays passed, the new year launched and Life in the West household hummed along perfectly with no pings in the engine . . . until a text message buzzed into my phone.

Hey, Peggy . . . Thought you might like to know . . . The breeder who had the Bernedoodle you liked so much at Christmastime has another litter . . . Just born . . . Mid-sized Bernies . . . Gonna be about 45 lbs. fully grown. Here’s her contact information in case you’re interested.

A collage of Wally’s photo floated through my mind, hijacking my thoughts for a few minutes. Visions of the cutest puppy I had ever seen sent me reeling.

Should we have gotten him? Do I REALLY NOT want another dog? Rusty’s definitely on the decline; he can’t hear, his arthritis is crippling and he sleeps away 95% of every day. Do we really travel that much? No, because we have a dog. But is that truly the reason? Carl’s birthday is coming up? Would he like a puppy? Ugh! Would I like a puppy since I’d probably be the one doing most of the work? Bernedoodles don’t shed . . . They’ve got hair, not fur!

A vigorous shake of the head brought me back to reality. Carl proclaimed in front of God and all our neighbors that we were NOT getting another dog . . . because I said my next dog would be cement. Period. He had spoken.

That text message haunted me for weeks. Compounding the issue was Carl’s upcoming birthday! He always goes way overboard in celebrating my birthdays but he never wants much fanfare around his. Besides, he just buys whatever he wants anyway, so surprising him with something he wants is impossible. One year I planned to give him the newest, latest and greatest MacBook Pro upgrade. I had an appointment at the Apple Store and was all set to make the purchase. I grabbed my purse and was setting the home alarm when he walked through the door with a big Apple bag hanging from his hand.

“What’s that?” I asked, disarming the alarm.

“Look, Honey! I upgraded my MacBook Pro!” he said with excitement. “Mine was so outdated and I’d been thinking about getting a new one for a long time. I just thought ‘the Hell with it,’ and went and bought one.”

So much for that! Another time I planned to replace his old, age worn leather briefcase with a new one. I researched lots of different brands, and I subtly asked about his preferences with regard to style, color, size and possible monogramming. I was very close to finalizing my order when he popped my balloon again. A large box delivered to the front door contained an exquisite leather bag conforming to Carl’s personal specifications and choices, and yes, it was monogrammed.

So, I mused, it seems I can’t ever surprise him. I’ve tried to get him something he wants, but he always gets it for himself. I refuse to buy him cigars because that’s like contributing to some sort of Death Fund; same with Scotch. The only other thing in the world he likes is dogs! Should I really get him one? Even though he said No? He only said he didn’t want another dog because I’ve been so against one, so . . . What harm is there in just giving the breeder a call . . . At least to find out how much she wants for the puppies? I’m not committing to anything . . . just ‘doing research.’

Instantly, an angel and a devil appeared on each of my shoulders, whispering in my ears their reasons for or against a puppy.

Good Morning, my query text began, I learned of you through a friend of mine. He told me you have a new litter of Bernedoodles . . . .”

Still not entirely sure which apparition had more influence over me, but I initiated contact with the breeder. What began as a scouting mission and information-gathering exchange ended with me wiring a non-refundable deposit on one male, Phantom Bernedoodle that I named Macanudo. (I figured that if I refuse to buy cigars for Carl, the least I could do was to name the puppy for one!) From that point on, I was a nervous wreck.

Another missed short putt prompted my golf partners (also college sorority sisters) to demand an explanation. On the short walk to the next tee, the floodgates opened. I shared my tale of woe about securing a puppy for my husband’s birthday despite his explicit declaration against ever having another dog other than one cast in cement.

“O.K., that’s it!” they said, “here’s the deal. You’re going to tell him toNIGHT that you bought him a puppy for his birthday. If we don’t receive a text message from you by 10:00 p.m., we’re going to call him ourselves and tell him what you did! Got it?”

“But his birthday isn’t for another three weeks!” I protested, knowing all too well that they’d make good on their threat.

“We don’t care! You won’t make it another three weeks like this! Tell him . . . Or WE WILL!” And that was that. I had my orders.

A disappointing finish at the eighteenth hole left us miles away from the prize table. My thoughts, however, were not on the golf tournament but rather on how and when I was going to come clean about the dog. I had a 10:00 p.m. hard deadline.

I suggested dinner at one of our regular haunts. Our cocktails typically arrive at our table before we do, which is a nice touch. On this evening in particular, I was especially happy they were there. As soon as we were seated, I guzzled a deep draw of liquid courage.

“So . . . Your birthday’s coming in a few weeks!”

“Nah . . . It’s not a big deal,” said Carl.

Sucking down a second swig of courage, I said, “Ya, well THIS one IS kind of a big deal!”

“I really don’t need or want anything,” said Carl, continuing to downplay the event.

“Look,” I said, on the verge of sounding not nearly as agitated as I was, “you ALWAYS go above and beyond my wild expectations for any event that has to do with me. You NEVER let me do anything nice for you! You’ve just got to stop saying that you don’t want anything! I can’t just get you some twenty-five dollar book from the New York Times Best Sellers list!”

And with that, I reached into my purse and pulled out the engraved ID tag I’d made for Macanudo and put it on his plate.

“What the Hell is this? I didn’t bring my glasses!” said Carl.

I finished off my cocktail and answered, “Um . . . It’s an ID tag. . . . for a dog collar,” I barely whispered.

Silence screamed throughout the restaurant for what seemed an eternity while Carl examined the bauble.

“You got me a DOG for my birthday?” he asked with incredulity.

“Well . . . <ahem> If it’s a good thing, then yes. I DID get you a dog. If it’s a bad thing, then we just eat the deposit,” I somehow managed to stammer, unable to look him in the eye.

“No, no, NO! It’s a wonderful thing! You really got me a dog? And not one made of cement?” he asked.

“Since it’s a wonderful thing, then yes, I REALLY got you a REAL dog . . . Made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails!” I said, finally able to breathe again. “And his name is Macanudo. You know I refuse to buy you any cigars, so I thought we could name the dog after one. Are you sure you like it?”

“I LOVE it! What kind is it?”

And from there I explained how it all came to be. When Carl excused himself from the table, I quickly texted my friends just before the 10:00 deadline.

“So . . . Have you ever wondered why the word ‘Awesome’ ends in m-e? It’s because I gave Carl a puppy for his birthday and HE THINKS I’M AWESOME! And Girls . . . By the way, a Macanudo is NOT just a fine cigar!”