Tonight, when I got home from work, my husband was in a terrible mood. He was lying down on the couch, all bundled up under the hand-kint blanket that we’d received as a wedding gift. Max, the Magnificent puppy, was full of energy. As soon as I opened the door, Max was there waiting, tail wagging, trying desperately to be good by staying seated, but finding it impossible. Max greeted me warmly; my husband didn’t.

He was tired, cold and very hungry.

Tired because he’s a firefighter recruit who endures grueling physical training sessions. Cold because the homeowner’s association has decided to replace our floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room in the middle of winter. Hungry because I didn’t have time to shop this week. Somebody had on some serious grumpy pants.

Before I could get settled, the phone rang. It was my brother. We needed to discuss his marketing plan. As I stepped into the bedroom to take the call, I heard the commotion in the great room. Max, the Mischievous, had just stepped on my husband’s very…last…nerve. Dear Husband (DH) started speaking loudly, Max started barking. Then I heard the crage door open. Then, the inevitable.

“Oh, Max!” Max had peed in his crate. DH was not happy. He stomped into the bedroom where I was taking my call, gathered up a few things, loudly closed the baby gate that we used to keep Max out, or in, depending on our mood, and then marched back into the great room. After he had cleaned up Max’s mess, the crage door slammed shut. That was it for Mr. Max.

Once I finished my phone call, Max was sequestered in the bedroom in the crage we keep there next to the bed. Fast forward one hour. Our friends are over. Max doesn’t make a peep. We’re in the bedroom measuring closet doors. Max is an angel. No barking. No whining. So, just as our guests are preparing to leave, I suggest that we let Max say goodbye. DH gives me the evil eye.

We open the gate and Max walks out, stretches and then greets each of our guests.

“Oh, he’s so good!” they exclaim as Max sits patiently and allows himself to be petted. Then, he shows them his new trick. He knows how to “shake a paw.” How charming. Max is magnificent again. He’s so good. I massage his back (he likes that) and scratch his chest. He licks my ears. He’s so good.

“I wore him out today,” DH says. This is information I didn’t have before. I learn that Max and DH had gone to the park today, which is why Max is too tired to bark, whine or steal socks from the dirty clothes. What a difference in his behavior. The dog whisperer had it right: exercise, discipline, affection. I suppose I’ll need to get a doggie treadmill. The alternative is to get up early in the morning and let Max run, then take him for a walk at night. This thought does not appeal to me.

But this is what Max needs. Poor Max. We get disappointed with him for misbehaving, but it’s clear that he needs more exercise. It seems that my “poor Max” this week could be a “better me.” Through giving Max exactly what he needs, I’d be getting what I need to.

Huh.