As chairman of the bored in my house, a responsibility I take sitting down, I am thrilled to announce that I have a new chair in my office.

My only worry is that, as with all the other chairs I have ever had, I will lose possession of this one to either my wife or — this has actually happened before — a dog.

The stolen seat saga began many years ago when I bought, with the approval and financial assistance of my wife, Sue, an easy chair.

It wasn’t so easy to shop for because we went to several furniture stores where I test-sat big, comfy chairs, sometimes for periods so long that even Sue, a dedicated shopper, got annoyed and announced it was time to go.

One time, I fell asleep in a chair on the showroom floor. It’s a good thing we weren’t buying a bed or I would have been locked in the store overnight.

I settled on a chair that was delivered to our house and placed in the family room, where I could sit in comfort while watching sports, drinking beer, eating popcorn and otherwise solving the world’s problems.

But I had a problem: Sue liked the chair so much that she took it over. I was left to plop into her chair, which replaced my old chair, in which I had made quite an impression, no ifs, ands or butts about it.

Eventually, the new-old chair, or the old-new chair, was brought into the living room and was again, ostensibly, mine.

Until our dog, Lizzie, took it over.

The pooch didn’t drink beer, in which case she would have been a lap dog, and the only popcorn she ate were the kernels I had dropped. She didn’t even watch sports because she didn’t have thumbs to work the TV remote. But she was smart enough to solve the world’s problems, most of which have been caused by humans like me.

Still, whenever I sauntered into the living room with the intention of sitting in the chair — my chair — I invariably found Lizzie, snoozing, snorting, sneezing or shedding.

God forbid I asked her to get out of the chair to do something constructive, like fetch my slippers, which apparently were too smelly even for a dog.

Eventually, Lizzie crossed the rainbow bridge, the chair was reupholstered and I laid sole claim to it again.

But my chair in the family room, which replaced the chair of mine that was taken over by Sue, was once again taken over by Sue. Which left me with the other chair, which is now worn and rumpled, like yours truly. To compound matters, it’s too deep for me to get out of without considerable effort.

One of these days, in trying to get up, I will pull a muscle, rupture a vital organ or remain there, ossifying in front of the TV while watching sports.

This is why I am so excited about the new chair in my office.

Sue thought it would be a nice touch for the room, which was recently refurbished. She looked online and showed me a midcentury accent chair (since the chair doesn’t talk, I don’t know what kind of accent it has) with modern linen fabric.

We went to a store where it was on sale. I plopped myself down in it and pronounced it cushy on the tushy.

We brought it home in the back of my car, but it was too cumbersome to carry upstairs (the chair, not my car). It sat in the living room until our neighbor Michael kindly came over and lugged it up to my office.

I am now enjoying the chair, which is easy to get out of. And our granddog, Opal, is afraid of stairs, so she won’t be taking it over.

Sue has promised not to lay claim to it, either. But if she did, I would, yet again, have to stand for it.

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