The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank by Erma Bombeck Page A

said, “Fess up! You've been playing with that dog all day long.”
    “Did anyone ever tell you you have a future in comedy . . . along with Jane Fonda and Eric Sevareid?”
    “C'mon now,” he teased, “look at the way that little dickens is jumping up and down.”
    “The little dickens is aiming for your throat. He wants out.”
    “Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “He just came in when I did.”
    “So now he wants out. I go through this over two thousand times a day. The dog has a Door Wish. He can't go by one without scratching it until it opens. The other day he scratched, barked, and jumped for fifteen minutes. Finally, I opened the door and he ran in and two minutes later started scratching again. He realized he was under the sink.”
    “Why does he want out so much? Maybe something is wrong with his kidneys?”
    “A dog with kidneys the size of a lentil could have better control than he has.”
    “I got it,” said my husband, snapping his finger. “We'll go out when he goes in. That way we'll confuse him into not knowing if he's out or in.”
    Standing there huddled in the darkness on the cold porch scratching with our paws to get in, I tried to figure out where I went wrong. I think it was when my mother said to me, “You're not getting any younger.”
    “You are going to think this is a dumb question,” I asked, “but why did we get a dog in the first place? I mean, if it was for the kids, forget it. All it has done for them is to keep them from looking down when they walk.”
    My husband took me by the shoulders and I saw shock written on his face. “Do you mean to tell me you really don't know?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “We did it for you,” he said.
    “You bought a dog for me?” I asked numbly.
    “But of course. For your protection. Maybe you don't realize the dangers of being by yourself out here in this wilderness. There are loonies and crazies running around all over the place.”
    “True, but we're all on a first-name basis.”
    “You may be as light about it as you like, but just wait until some day when I am at work in the city, and a wild-eyed stranger knocks at your door and wants to use your phone on some pretense and you'll be mighty thankful Arlo is around.”
    I looked at Arlo. He was lying on his back in front of the fireplace with all four paws sticking up in the air— passing gas.
    The mental picture of a sex pervert at my door and the only thing between us was Arlo, sent a shiver down my spine.
    It was several weeks later that Arlo was to be put to the test. I answered the door to find two men standing there rubbing Arlo behind the ears.
    “Pardon us,” said one of the men, “but our truck broke down and we'd like to phone our company for help.”
    I grabbed Arlo by the collar and jerked him to his feet. “I must apologize for the dog,” I said. “I'll try to hold him so he won't tear you to shreds. Down boy!”
    The men looked at one another and shrugged as the dog blinked sleepily and slumped to the floor. “He looks pretty friendly to me,” said one of them.
    I knelt and pushed back Arlo's lip to show his teeth. When I released the lip, it fell back into a ripple as he licked my hand. “You may not believe this but I had to register this dog with the police as a deadly weapon. Just ask anyone around here and they'll tell you about Arlo.”
    “Arlo?” the men grinned.
    “Steady boy!” I said, propping him up to get him off my foot. “Just don't make any sudden moves,” I cautioned.
    One of the men came inside to use the phone while Arlo and I held the other man at bay at the door.
    “Why, one of the kids was just playing around one day,” I related nervously, “and inadvertently punched me on the arm. Arlo liked to have made raw meat out of him before we could pull him off.”
    “Is that right?” asked the stranger.
    His friend returned and together they thanked me, playfully pushed Arlo over on his back, scratched his stomach, and left.
    As they