Who Really Lives in the Doghouse?

I don't mean to whine, but I can't help feeling my husband spends more money on the dogs than he does on me.

He completely reorganized the utility shelves in the laundry room--not because I could never find whatever household cleaner I needed at any given time (though that's always made a handy-dandy excuse for not doing housework)--but so he could make room for a large assortment of dog treats. I had no idea there was such a shortage that he had to buy in bulk.

We can't keep them in the pantry, because that's more easily accessible to Baby Bear, who's been known to confuse doggie bacon bits and biscuits with his own supply of Cheetos and Triscuits.

Mr. Lucky tosses the dogs treats for every occasion you can think of. They get a treat when he comes home. They get a treat for going to the bathroom in their designated spot. They even get a treat just for sitting and doing nothing.

So where's mine?

Don't I deserve a chocolate when my husband comes home? He says I'm always in the bathroom. And I'd be just as willing as the dogs to sit around and do nothing.

"Yeah, but you don't get as excited as they do when I come home," he said. "You don't wag your tail or lick me all over my face like they do."

Maybe I'll get chocolates if I stop certain bad behaviors. Like always barking at him about the dirty socks and wet towels on the floor. Jumping all over him to take out the garbage. Digging holes in the backyard to bury the remote and that DVD he found in the "Please Take This Inventory Off Our Hands!" bin at the dollar store and always wants to watch every Saturday night.

As for the tail wagging and face licking, I guess we'll have to work on that, though it might mean going through some back issues of Cosmopolitan and a visit to Victoria's Secret.

Hey, it's for chocolate.