Corky and Me

The only reason we saw the movie was because I was so bummed out. Between the constant steam of bad economic news and the flare-up of my noisily complaining joints, I’ve been in a funk. I needed to get off the couch.

Keeper, starting to mend from his surprise appendectomy, suggested heading to the big city for lunch and a movie. Okay, so he meant San Mateo. A girl my age doesn’t get asked on many dates. I can’t afford to be picky.

I was given my choice of movies. I made him promise in advance not to groan. I knew when I told him I wanted to see a movie about a dog, he would picture “Air Bud” or “Underdog” or some such nonsense. No, I wanted to see a feel-good movie about a real canine: “Marley and Me.”

I had been wrong to think that everybody who wanted to see the cinematic version of the bestselling book had already seen it. The theater was packed, but we found seats on the far aisle and settled in to watch the commercials. (Does anybody remember when the one and only movie commercial featured a box of popcorn singing, “Let’s go out to the lobby and get ourselves a snack”?)

When Keeper realized the movie wasn’t animated and starred a real live Jennifer Aniston, he visibly relaxed. Jennifer’s co-star is Owen Wilson, the but real star of the show is the yellow Labrador who has earned the title, “The World’s Worst Dog.”

Like me, John Grogan, the author of “Marley and Me,” is a newspaper columnist, although for some unexplained reason, he is able to afford a house in Boca Raton on his salary. This was just one of the many laughs in “Marley.” There is also face-licking, leg-humping, jewelry-swallowing, couch-chewing, and a big no-no on the beach. Think of every bad thing your dog has ever done and multiply by 1000.

Marley’s misadventures are great comic fodder and there are a slew of heart-warming moments. Of course, there’s always a price to pay. But you knew that. The cost of love is grief, people. Get used to it.

The big scene is not as dramatic as the one in “Old Yeller,” but it’s just as wrenching. I dug for tissues in my purse and silently handed one to Keeper, and then another one. The man was bawling like a little girl. I was trying so hard not to sob that my throat hurt.

We drove home in silence and headed right for Corky’s crate. (If we didn’t crate her when we go out, Corky would own the title “World’s Worst Dog” by virtue of her cat-chasing alone.)

We wanted to cuddle with our little girl, having just been reminded that doggie love is fleeting, but she would have none of it. It was treats and a walk for her, and then a little bone-chewing before bedtime, thank you very much.

“Do you think I should put my Corky columns together in a book like John Grogan did?” I asked Keeper.

“Sure,” he replied, fastening the leash on her little pink collar. “You could title it “Call of the Domesticated.”

Here’s Corky giving kisses: