I Bet on the Wrong Dog

Stacy's Mom Lynne is a die-hard dog person.  She has been running dogs in agility competitions for years and has got all the ribbons and trophies to prove it.  She's intense.  I'm not saying she gets carried away or has difficultly separating dog world relality from human world reality or anything, but before I was allowed to propose to Stacy she did make me get a qualifying score in the weave pole event.  It wasn't a pretty sight, but hey.  You do what you have to do.

Her first agility dog was Ace, a Jack Russel terrier.  There have been many other additions to the brood, but Ace was the prototype of canine insanity to come.  Ace and I even bonded somewhat.  A rather tense and high-strung animal, I'm one of the few people he would let pat him, and on a good day, rub his tummy.  Ace is an old codger now - 15+, half bald and all trembly.  His time is short.  If all dogs go to heaven, Ace is significantly late for his appointment.

Knowing that fateful day, when if finally arrived, would be a hard one for the MiL, I figured I would make a rare attempt to be kind and considerate (and preemptively earn some mother-in-law brownie points) by painting her a portrait of her beloved show dog.  I purloined an old photo of puppy Ace and put together the soon-to-be memorial portrait, shooting to give it to her for a birthday present.  I was happy with the way it came out.

She seemed to like it too.

But as brilliant as I thought my plan to be, it had a significant flaw that manifest itself only days before I'd finished the painting.  I came up to Stacy on the phone one day and she was looking concerned and making comforting sounds to whoever it was on the other end.

"What wrong?" I asked.

"It's Kyle," she said, speaking of her brother.  "He just had to put Mom's dog to sleep.  Mom's quite upset."

"Ace is dead?" I asked.

"No, not Ace.  Charlie."

I bet on the wrong #@%$  dog.