My-wife-knot-my-dog Apr 2026

Looks at Linda.

He realizes: this is the first time he has held anything living—other than Bruce—in six months.

Fine. But I’m not untying anything. Drop her off. 7 PM. No later.

She’s a nine-pound narcissist. Good luck. my-wife-knot-my-dog

He doesn’t even know the cat’s allergy medication!

I know.

(to Bruce) That didn’t happen.

Split the cat. Week on, week off. And for God’s sake—learn to tie a bowline. It’s a knot that doesn’t strangle.

She shrieks. She claws at the door. Arlo tries everything—calming spray, a sweater, ignoring her. Nothing works.

He said I “knot” things too tightly. The finances, the kids, the dog. Looks at Linda

He looks at Tom.

(softer) Arlo. Please. She’s fourteen. She has a heart murmur. If I board her, she’ll literally die of sadness. You’re a divorce attorney—you know what literal dying of sadness looks like.

I’m sorry about the knot.

The doorbell rings. Arlo opens it.