Since July 1, I’ve gotten really good at timing dinners. The time my husband comes home from work ranges between 6:30-10:30 pm.

Special Note: In case you’re wondering why I refer to my husband as anything other than his real name, it’s in case some former patient calls a HIPPA violation on info I may possibly talk about in the blog. For instance, if the individual who has the __________________ [edit: my husband informed me that what I had put was a “patient identifier” and he could get fired for it. Well poop on you, HIPPA, you spoil all the fun.] tattooed across their backside stumbles upon my blog, and decides that it’s an invasion of their privacy, they can’t exactly sue me. I’d actually like to meet that person and see this glorious piece of indelible art, but here’s hoping it’s not in a courtroom.

Back to dinner and husband. I’ve made a game plan where I call around 6 and then go from there. Sometimes he gets pulled in to another consult on his way out and his “be there in 15 minutes” turns into 90 minutes.

Even if I mistime the meals, I make a point to sit at the table while he eats whatever I have made and talk about the day. I do this because 1) all our marriage books say we’re supposed to sit at a table together and 2) I want to know if he likes the food. He can’t get away with passing off my home cooked meals if I watch every bite he takes. Thankfully, either my husband has a stomach similar to a billy goat, or he has gotten really good at hiding food he doesn’t like.

You may think I’m being silly, but one of the stories his mother likes to tell is when she moved their living room couch to clean it, and she found piles and piles of food underneath it that both my husband and his father had HIDDEN so they wouldn’t have to eat it. Seriously. It’s like that meatball episode of Andy Griffith.

My mother in law is a great cook, and my husband loves food as a result of it. And like the story above, most of his childhood stories revolve around food. Another one: his family had a cocker spaniel named Wayne (Best name for a dog, ever. We have this name on tap for our next pet, although he will be referred to as Lil Wayne. We also have Phyllis for a female pet, to go along with Willis. Phyllis, Willis, and Lil Wayne. It would look great on a Christmas card. Christmas cards are my litmus test for pet names; that, and the “can I yell this throughout the neighborhood and not get embarrassed” test). Wayne passed away from some form of diabetic shock by being fed an entire Honey Baked Ham. My mother in law felt sorry for him, so on the way to the vet to put him down, they drove through McDonald’s and bought him his last meal- a Big Mac.

Willis may soon be following his Uncle Wayne down the road of food-induced death. I’ve considered searching Pinterest for ways to calm a dog down. I’m sure there’s a combination of baking soda, essential oils, glue gun, and a crock pot that might work. Maybe anointing his head with some soothing lavender?   He’s been fixed, and that’s helped, and I’ve considered taking him back to the vet to see if there is another body part they can remove to tone him down some more.

So, if you have any suggestions on how to make my Welsh Corgi become more like his calmer, royal counterparts, I will happily serve you a meal between 6:30-10:30 pm.