A woman can tell how much her man loves her, not by the things he buys her, or the love he professes, but whether he will pooper-scoop after the dog.

“He’s your dog,” my husband grouses, settling back on pillows to watch the White Sox game.

“But if you really loved me,” I protest.

“Before it rains,” he says callously, his hand rustling into the Doritos bag.

Grimacing, stomping off to find the black metallic pooper scooper, I wonder if I am a coolie or equal partner. Hillary didn’t have to pooper-scoop after Buddy. Melania would get the Donald to do it, figuring he did it for both Ivana and Marla. No way is she losing out. And Cheney would have W. do it.

One night, I dream. I’m somewhere in Egypt, making an appearance before Cleopatra’s great-granddaughter, admiring the Pyramid-chintz décor.

My attire is a burlap tunic. I look at the tag. RIVER-WASH ON ROCK, SUN-DRY CYCLE. On my feet are green saplings tied with straw. Yep. Standard issuance coolie.

The Egyptian scribe, or special advisor to the Queen, narrows his eyes at me. “Ah, mistress, this one has the gifted hands to hold a -–”

“Scepter?” the queen queries haughtily, momentarily threatened. “Knave, what did you say?”

The scribe coughs nervously while I try to price the golden amulet she’s wearing. Is that a Joan Rivers early-bird buyer special? I wonder. She get that on E-Bay? The incense in this place is making my seasonal allergies kick in. And what’s with all that eyeliner? Is she a designated hitter playing a day game?

The scribe’s voice stirs me.

“No, your Goddessness. Look at that sturdiness, that mule-like demeanor, that singular ability to squeeze handles together. These are hands destined for pooper scooping.”

“Ah,” says the Queen, rubbing her long-nailed hands together. “Fetch the royal dogs. At last, I’ll be able to glide across my yard with no fear of ruined, wretched slippers.”

“Nor worry of your silks from the East being soiled, madam,” says the scribe.

“Listen,” I interject. “Your Royal High N’ Mighty. I’m here by mistake. I have enough problems keeping up with my own Fido.”

“Fido? What is this ‘Fido?’ Is this slave being insolent?”

Just then, my husband John flies in with a time machine, whisking me back home, to our Chicago suburb.

“You’re my hero,” I ooze.

“Oh, I was desperate to find you,” he replies, distraught, clutching my hand. “The kids had tied me to a tree.”

“Silly thing. They’re just playing drawn and quartered,” I chortle. “You’d only have to worry if they had extra rope.”

He smiles at my infinite wisdom, then gently strokes my cheek. “Let me spirit you away to Venice, my love. We’ll gaze at the stars and sip wine. We’ll –- ”

“Shush,” I whisper, placing a light index finger on his lips. “You know how to really satisfy me.”

His eyes glisten with anticipation. A slight froth forms around his mouth. “You mean -– ”

I hand him the black metallic pooper scooper. “Before it rains.”