Who's your daddy

"I have of late, but wherefor I know not, lost all my mirth."
While, in the balance Shakespeare has given me more tedium than joy, there are lines and passages I adore. Like the one above. It's a perfect way to describe a funk.
I had been thinking last week that it has been ages since I had laughed so hard that tears had come to my eyes.
But, then, a few days ago, it happened. I was scootching Pullo over on the couch and he yelped in pain.(Like a little girly puppy) Jeff looked over at me like I'd been putting out cigarettes on the dog's haunches. "You have to be careful!"
"I didn't do anything," I pleaded. "I hardly touched him!"
Jeff look over at Pullo. "Poor old guy! Maybe we should --"
Every once in a while, Jeff gets these classic hare brained (hair brained?) ideas that can catch me off guard.
"Yes, Honey? What should we do?"
"Well, I can get some hospital sheets. The two of us could move him like nurses move patients."
This is when I lost it. Tears, gasps for breath, red faced laughter.
This dog is already a little prince. And now Jeff is suggesting we make him a -- a what? Mahraja? The Dali Lama? (Hmm, the Doggy Lama, now there's a nick name!)
But, and there is always a but, isn't there?
The yelping turned out not to be an isolated incident. He's twisted or sprained some muscle or joint. Pullo not Jeff. And curiously he won't tell us in plain English what's wrong.
And of course, we've done the one thing you're not supposed to do: We've rewarded these cries of pain. If he whimpers we immediately rush to comfort him. Teaching him that whining is the way to get your Dads to drop everything and pet you gently. (Is this classic conditioning? Or the other kind? And who exactly is being conditioned here? Paging Dr. Skinnner.)
And, although we haven't gotten the hospital sheets out yet, I did use boxes and mats to build a little staircase up to our bed.
One bright spot. If the afterlife is run by dogs, Jeff and I will be sitting pretty for eternity.