When wife's out of town, the dogs don't come out to play

Wife’s out of town. Let four days of debauchery and uninhibited bacheloresqueness begin.

At least, that’s what I planned on Monday when I grabbed my lunch box, my coffee, and kissed her on my way out the door. She was hot on my heels, heading for the airport.

Plans were extensive.

I was going to hit the ground running: hours of motorcycle riding, no housework, unfolding across the bed and snoring to my heart’s content.

Maybe I’d go to the movies and see something she’d hate, or listen to the Sex Pistols as loud as the old record player could go, all while dancing around the room in a pair of tighty-whities and strumming a broom like a guitar.

Day one: I watched two movies at home and bought and replaced the battery in my car’s key fob. Exhilarating.

Like any man’s man, I made dinner for the week: a pack of hot dogs, which I reheat and eat on a napkin or paper towel to save myself the trouble of washing dishes.

By the end of a few hot dogs, I started feeling bad about my calorie count and ditched the idea of drenching myself in booze, opting instead for an hour of self-loathing until my regularly scheduled depressive spiral began around 10 p.m.

Day two: I was in my undershirt and boxers by the time I crossed the threshold.

When Wife is home, the dogs are alert. Ready to work. Ready to accomplish.

I damn near couldn’t wake them up.

I belched, I whistled, I sang. I cursed with color just to feel the vulgarity on my tongue.

Not a peep from the canines, and the echoes of profanity barely pinballed down the hallway before dissipating into the emptiness of the bedrooms.

I peeked out the window and watched for a moment as somebody else’s cat scampered across the lawn, briefly considering barking at it since the dogs couldn’t be bothered to get up.

Overwhelmed by adrenaline from that episode, I went back to the whiteboard — a literal whiteboard hung in the kitchen and peppered with honey-dos that usually have me knocking around the dinner table like a blind man with a distractible lead dog.

When she’s gone, I like to wipe out all the low-hanging fruit to make myself seem productive, like I can exist without a partner detailing the correct way to wipe down a counter or organize the fridge.

I started a cabinet project at 10 p.m., decided at 11 p.m. it was too late to continue doing anything, so I really needed to lay down for bed, and by 12:45 a.m. I was almost done sorting comic books that I hadn’t touched or hardly thought of in nearly two years.

I fell asleep staring at the wall, wondering what it’d be like to have three fingers and a thumb on each hand.

Day three: Out of hot dogs.

Comic books literally on every surface in the kitchen — table, island, counters, chairs, you name it. Cabinet doors only half-installed across shelves in the bedroom.

I ate a salad without dressing for dinner. Just leaves and a sadly chopped tomato.

Boredom tinged every task.

I had no errands to run. My half-started projects pressured me more than relaxing and having a good time. It’s like she was there in spirit all along.

With no one to talk to except the dogs, everything became “dawg.” “What’s up, dawg?” when I got home. “Come on, dawg,” when a screw wouldn’t catch the threads properly. Then simply a “Really, dawg?” when I opened up the pool filter to find a black snake coiled above the bucket and a brown spider the size of a damn baseball perched on the wall.

Day four: By the time Wife appeared in the doorway that evening, all the tasks were done.

Dishes were cleaned and tucked away. Doors were on most of the shelves in the bedroom, and the comics were chronologically organized in boxes downstairs.

I was showered and freshly shaven. The last remnants of the skulking sasquatch that lurked our halls were replaced by a Don Juan, lounging on the deck, reading “Hell’s Angels” by Hunter S. Thompson.

When she came out, having filtered through the house to shed her bags, Phantom and Mellie, our Doberman and Shih Tzu, rushed to greet her.

We locked eyes. A moment of tender excitement as I grunted trying to get out of my chair. I smiled.

“How was your trip, dawg?”