we

The Kong was losing.

This is not a surprise. Every Kong loses eventually, despite what the packaging implies. The people who write Kong packaging have clearly never met Captain or Morgan, and if they had, they would choose different words. Words like “enthusiastic” or “motivated” or simply “goodbye.”

But last night the Kong was still in the fight, and the three of us were deep into a game I can only describe as competitive optimism — them believing they could destroy it, me believing they couldn’t, all of us wrong in our own way.

Then my wife said it.

“We need to cut back the crabapple tree.”

I want to be precise about what happened next, because it happened fast and it happened completely. Captain, who had been stationed under the breakfast table during pre-game warmups, was already there. Morgan, who had been between me and the AC register in a configuration that suggested he owned both, relocated with a quiet efficiency that I can only describe as professional.

The Kong sat on the floor between us, unattended, unconquered, and frankly a little confused.

Neither dog looked at me. This is the tell. When something good is happening or about to happen, they watch me like I’m the only television in the room. When “we” arrives, they look away. Not guilty. Not sad. Just… done. The way you close a browser tab.

I have known for forty-two years what “we” means in this marriage. It means me. It has always meant me. But here is what the Boyz have also come to understand, in whatever way dogs understand things that take humans considerably longer: she earns it. Her days don’t end when she leaves the office; they follow her home in charts and labs and the particular weight of other people’s health riding on her attention. The “we” that lands on me is not inequity. It’s arithmetic.

The Boyz, apparently, have done the math.

They have no idea what a crabapple tree is. But they know what happens to me when she says “we,” and they know it doesn’t include them. Captain goes under the table. Morgan finds his register. The play stops. Case closed.

I told them it wasn’t happening right now. I said “tomorrow.” I used the word several times, with what I considered appropriate emphasis. Captain regarded me from beneath the table with the patient expression of someone who has heard “tomorrow” before. Morgan opened one eye, assessed the situation, and closed it again.

It took fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes of negotiation, demonstration, the re-introduction of the Kong, and two rounds of who wants a treat before they were willing to accept that the crabapple tree was not an immediate threat to the afternoon.

My wife watched from the kitchen with the expression she reserves for situations she finds instructive. She did not intervene. She has also known for forty-two years what “we” means, and she knew this one was going to work itself out.

The tree got cut back this morning.

We did it.