I was looking at rockers the other day. Not the Springsteen/Bon Jovi variety; the kind you sit in. The big, cushy sort that recline, sport a built-in foot rest ... you know, that whole BarcaLounger, La-Z-Boy sort of thing.

I was just browsing, not really thinking about making a purchase. I'm not unhappy with my current recliner, a slightly battered, brown corduroy deal given to us by my in-laws when they bought new five or six years ago. It was old then and it's older now, but I like it a lot.

This is a good thing, as a recliner, to an American male, is Very Important. I spend a lot of time in mine, reading, watching television, writing this column, cruising the Internet ... that recliner knows my backside like a politician knows pork. I would go so far as to say I love my recliner.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, alas, does not.

When she looks at my recliner, she doesn't see an enticing oasis of comfort and familiarity, she sees a shabby lump of frame and fabric that smells vaguely of dog. And it's just sitting there in the middle of her otherwise charming living room.

The rest of the room is comprised of attractive antiques, carefully coordinated furnishings and artfully selected bric-a-brac chosen less for its usefulness than its ability to make women say, "Oh, my, what a lovely home you have!" when they walk through the front door. Or, rather, they would say that if not for my big, brown lump of a recliner hulking there before the television like a pagan alter, something you might strap a virgin to just before the sacrifice.

But like I said, I love that recliner, so Mrs. T for the most part tolerates it. Still, in my more lucid moments, I can see she's right. It does look like hell and it does smell vaguely of dog, this last despite the fact the dog never sits in it - he has the sofa. This leads me to believe that perhaps I smell vaguely of dog, but I won't be willing to admit to this - even to myself - until much later in life, if ever.

At any rate, every so often I find myself toying with the idea of purchasing a new recliner. Heaven knows there are a lot of them out there, and some are truly amazing to behold. Recliner technology has advanced at an exponential rate since my humble brown lump rolled off the assembly line 20 years ago.

As I strolled up and down the crowded aisles of the furniture mega-store, I saw recliners with cup holders, TV clicker holders, heated and refrigerated cup holders (no, I am not kidding), back massagers, built-in TV clickers, tiny built-in refrigerators, stereo speakers, computer/video game hookups ... these were chairs that, if they added a "flush" option, you could sit down in and never have to get back up again.

I have to admit I was impressed. Compared to these living room yachts, my modest brown lump looked like a paddleboat with a hole in the bottom. Granted, the price tags attached to most of these recliners bore a strong resemblance to the national debt ($8.3 trillion, as of last Monday), but since I wouldn't have to make any payments for 90 days, and then it would be the "same as cash," I figured a purchase was, in theory at least, do-able.

I sat in one, a real monster. Four cows, at a minimum, died to supply the leather for this beast. As I sank slowly into the marshmallow-soft cushions, I noticed a complete lack of dog smell. Also, this chair was comfortable. Real comfortable.

I tried a few more chairs. They were all comfortable and none of them smelled of dog. But the more recliners I sampled, the more I realized they would seem comfortable to anyone who sat in one. They were not selective. Like the overly made-up girl at the end of the bar who will smile at anybody with enough money to pay for a gin-and-tonic, these recliners were, well, easy.

My brown lump of a chair is comfortable to me and only to me. And I'm comfortable with it. I'm even comfortable with the smell; there's something reassuring about the smell of dog. I think it goes back to our cave-man days, when dogs kept the saber-tooth tigers away from the mouth of the cave. Whatever it is, I like it.

So I didn't buy a new recliner. I'll spend the $8.3 trillion on something else, maybe dinner and a movie. (With the cost of movie theater popcorn, the $8.3 trillion should just about cover it.)

With any luck, and with proper maintenance, my recliner could last another 50 years. By then I'll be dead. Maybe they could bury me in the chair, a cold beer in one hand, the TV clicker in the other.

When archaeologists dig me up 500 years in the future, I'll be the skeleton with a comfortable smile on its face, the one that smells vaguely of dog.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or fabric-cleaning tips, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.