I have to go to the veterinarian today to have my dog put down. I've thought about this for a very long time and I just can't see any way around it. No, thank you for your concern, but he's not sick; he just doesn't match our new drapes. Fluffy is a big black mark in the debit column of our design ledger, and he has to go. So, off with his head. Or, anyway, on with the lethal injection. Honestly, I've thought about this for, like, days. On and off.

            And hey, what can I do? We redecorated recently, and I have got to tell you, he really just doesn't go with those drapes. I mean, seriously, you should see him in the living room, standing by the bay window; it hurts your eyes. Clash-o-rama. Not-matching at its finest. A design nightmare. We thought about dying him, instead of, you know, dieing him, but I concluded that that? Would be a little cruel. So he's toast.

            My kids will miss him, of course. They've been crying about this for days now. Fluffy was, after all, there when both of them were born, and I think even assisted in the birth of the eldest. (I wouldn't know because I was out having a couple of glasses of single-malt whiskey--neat--at the Four Seasons down the street; hey, you only have your first kid once, you know?) But I think a little adversity toughens a kid up. Makes them stronger. One of them, the youngest, uh, Sophia, I think, was sobbing, and she even asked me to kill her instead of Fluffy, but I told her not to be silly; I would never kill her. For one thing, she does match the drapes.

            Now, I don't want you to think that Fluffy in any way deserves to die. Oh, sure, the little son of a bitch likes to hump my leg a little bit more than I'm comfortable with--try getting dog jizz out of your B-squared golf pants, you know? (At any rate, the maids tell me it's extremely difficult.) And he does have that annoying screechy bark that sounds like my first wife when I ran over her foot with the X3. (You know she still sends me emails about that? It was five years ago, woman. Let it go. I paid for that mistake fully in the divorce settlement. You got the surgery and a cane, didn't you?) But, basically he's a good dog, albeit a good dog who doesn't match my new drapes. No, no, it's just Fluffy's time to go. And the drapes' time to stay.

            As you can imagine, my wife is a little upset about this too. That's why I'm taking Fluffy in. (I am taking time off from work for it, too. No cashing in inherited bearer bonds for me this morning.) I mean, until the kids came along, Fluffy was like her child. We had a nanny to take care of him, just like the kids, and I think Allison--that's my wife; she's in mortgage-backed securities--even breastfed him when she was nursing, er, whatshername, our oldest...Megan! I knew I'd think of it. Well, you know, until she heard that breastfeeding gives you those National Geographic breasts. That was the end of that, you know? I mean, I shudder to think of it. Whew! Crisis averted. Our marriage would have been over. Anyway, yeah, she's pretty upset. But she does see my point. How could she not? It's as plain as the nose on your face. Or the drapes on your window.

And she'd have done her part, come with me to bring Fluffy in, but she had a mani-pedi and a meeting with some horrid little man from the government about the TARP money her firm got. Apparently they weren't supposed to use it for a fleet of helicopters. Go know everything, you know? Honestly, how else was she supposed to get from our house in Winnetka to downtown? It's 25  miles. Drive? Take a train?!? Some homeless or middle-class person might have been in the very same seat before her. You can't see it, but I'm shuddering. Shud. Er. Ing.

            But I digress. We were talking about how I'm having Fluffy put down. My wife did finally have to admit it was for the best. Apparently if all the maids are off--and that has never happened, but it might, someday, perhaps in the event of a nuclear war or an outbreak of superflu that decimates the population--someone has to actually take Fluffy outside and walk him around. I mean, in the street. And that person has to--I hardly know how to say this--pick up the, you know, doo-doo in a plastic bag. One thin layer of plastic between my skin--or Allison's, and that's what convinced her--and...shit. Well, one thin layer of plastic and a team of 15 maids, but still. What if there's a terrorist attack and they--selfish as they are--decide to remain with their families rather than come in to care for us? I shudder, again, some more, to think of it.

            The vet tried to talk me out of it, you know. I told him a thing or two, let me assure you; I think his ears were ringing when I finished. The man's never even seen our drapes. And he never will. I mean, cats pee on him all day long. I believe that we must not judge people by what they do, but by who their parents were, but that is just one too many for me.

            Well, then. Fluffy is in the Beemer, Allison is off to her MP and meeting, and the girls...oh, it's so pitiful. The nannies hardly know what to do; the girls are in the living room, crying their eyes out, staring at Fluffy in the car on the driveway through the big bay window, the one with the drapes. Very very attractive drapes, I might note. Well, of course.

            Hmmm. You know something? I'm rethinking a little here. No, not about Fluffy; he's on his way to Snuff City. I mean, he's already in the car, for one thing. Actually, it's Sophia. Seeing her crying there, well, huh. I just realized: she really doesn't match the drapes that well at all.