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I work a 9-5. (Well, an 8:30 to 4:30, in any case.) My husband works an 8:30 to Whenever – he usually manages to be home by 7:00 pm, but he’s rolled in at 8:30 on more than one occasion.

During the work week, Her Dogginess goes to doggie daycare.

And I don’t mean somebody comes to walk her, or she hangs out in a kennel at the vet’s, or at a family member’s or friend’s house while we’re working: that would hardly be worth a Confession Friday moment.

I mean we spend as much on her daytime fun as some people spend on child care. The doggie daycare we bring her to is a house that was actually built for that purpose, and the 18 or so furry children that hang out there on week days are grouped according to energy level, temperament and size, and they get Inside Time, Outside Time, Lunch Time, and Nap Time. I kid you not — I have no idea how two people can make 20 or so dogs all go to their separate mats and lie down for an hour like kindergartners, but I’ve seen it happen.

They can get baths –with or without blow-dry and conditioner– if you ask. They can get massages and nail treatments if you ask. They can get very pretty haircuts, if you ask. (And, of course, pay.)

I will state here that outside of the occasional shampoo, we don’t ask. But it’s a bit late to be trying to separate myself from this madness. We’re already budgeting a respectable amount of our combined income to Doggie Daycare.

And while I may cringe slightly admitting this, we won’t be stopping any time soon: Her Dogginess would be very sad if she were home alone, and nobody wants Her Dogginess to be sad.


Bad things happen. See?