I’m new at this, but I think I was supposed to post some disclaimer before I ruined the end of the movie “Marley and Me.”
Who are we kidding?
Name the movie, “Where the Red Fern Grows,” “Old Yeller,” “Cujo.”
The dog always dies.
And then I’m left in a theater, blubbering like an idiot, trying to be consoled by my three-year-old daughter who is really angling for some more of my popcorn.
I religiously avoid any movies with dogs. I won’t even watch “Dog Day Afternoon.” I call them doggie-snuff films where heartless Hollywood movie producers who already succeeded in emptying your wallet, try to get you to bare your soul.
I went to the aforementioned movie because of the lure of a plot about a pair of married journalists trying to manage an out-of-control dog. It sounded autobiographical.
And it was a delightful movie for about 70 minutes. Then reality hits. The couple is older, now has three children and the dog isn’t dead yet. These are all surefire signs that the dog is about to die.
This is when I start squirming in my seat, eyeing the exits, hoping either the movie projector will break or that I might suddenly require an emergency appendectomy. Because I know I’m going to have to watch people go through the agony of putting down their dog and I’m going to break down.
This movie makes it particularly wrenching. The dog gets sick, the dog rallies. The dog gets sick again, the veterinarian turns needle-wielding villian.
And then I begin to lose it. It starts as sniffles, easy enough to pass off as a cold. I pull out a tissue and feign blowing my nose. I throw in a few dry, hacky coughs to supplement my fake cold.
But it only gets worse. The dog is being euthanized. The children watch a video montage of the dog’s life.
At this point, I’m a full-blown woman. I’m sobbing hysterically. My 3-D glasses are fogged over. My mind is scrambling between thoughts of the tragedy unfolding on screen and whether these jeans make my butt look big and I’m asking the person next to me if they’ll hold me. He says “no” and now I’m not only an emotional wreck but I’m self-conscious.
They bury the dog. At this point, I’m not even watching the movie anymore. I’m trying to think about the score of the Nuggets game the previous night or what it would be like to demolish that half wall between our living room and kitchen. I’m like a dangling rock climber, desperately trying to grasp on to anything that would restore a shred of my masculinity. I’m fully expecting an usher to come in at any point and ask for the keys to my garage so they can take my power tools and workbench and replace them with a darling oak vanity.
“It the 00’s,” you say, “a man should be able to break down and cry at any given moment.
“Just ask Mike Shanahan and Pat Bowlen,” you add.
But not like this. Not over some movie dog.
Take my power saw, please.
