Andy's Going To The Dogs!

Love of animals is certainly not a genetic trait. My husband and I are not pet people, and Chris has gone on record saying that he doesn't get "the point" of dogs. When his friend's dog died a few years ago, Chris managed to muster a "Sorry to hear that. I know you really liked that dog." The unspoken part of that last sentence was "for some reason."

Don't be fooled by these dogs; not one of them
knows how to vacuum.

In fact, Chris thinks that everyone that wants a dog would be better off just taking in a drifter. His argument is that in the battle of dog versus homeless person, a homeless person wouldn't need to be housebroken, he probably wouldn't chew up your slippers, and he could make himself useful by helping out with chores and being the third player when you and your significant other have a hankering for a game of "Clue." So, next time you're considering adopting a puppy, why not just take in a wino?

I wouldn't go that far with my feelings about dogs. I'm just not interested in them. And big dogs make me nervous. Every time an owner of a big dog tries to convince me that the big dog is "friendly," I feel like they're trying to pull a fast one, and that it's a mere matter of seconds before their "friendly" beast sinks his fangs directly into my soul.

Andy, however, is not suspicious of dogs like his mother. And, unlike his father, he totally gets the point of dogs and, if he knew more than four words, would probably list at least thirty ways a dog is better than a homeless person.

He was born liking dogs; he has a natural affinity to dogs that was apparent to my father even when Andy was only a week or two old. "This boy is going to need a dog," he said wisely, staring down at his sleepy grandson. "You're going to end up getting him a dog."

At almost sixteen months old, we still haven't purchased Andy his dog, but the boy goes nuts whenever he sees one. His first word after mama and dada was dog. It sounds more like "duh," but we know what he's going for. Andy points to dogs on television and in books and when he sees one in person, his face lights up and it's all he can do to contain himself. He has a ball chasing his aunt's chihuahua, who I think is still trying to figure out what, exactly, Andy is (not an adult, not a puppy, not a chew toy). And when the neighbor's dog bounds over to Andy and sticks her tongue directly down Andy's throat, Andy doesn't flinch. He seems to really enjoy it, possibly because the dog's mouth likely tastes like dog food, which is another thing that Andy's really interested in.

Over the summer, a woman with two small white dogs was walking down the street. Andy and I were outside playing, and when he saw the two dogs heading our way, he immediately squealed, took off running towards the two dogs (he had just mastered walking the week before), and threw himself on top of one of the dogs before I had time to even process what was going on. In all of Andy's excitement to cuddle with the dogs, he managed to kick off his shoes, and his bare little feet were sticking up towards the sky as he violently, sweetly tackled the larger of the two dogs.

"I'm sorry," I told the woman, attempting a smile and a shrug. By this point, Andy had one fist around the dog's right ear, one fist around the dog's back leg, and his face buried deep into the dog's fur. His voice was muffled, but I could distinctly hear, "Duh! DUH!"

"It's okay," the lady said politely, gently tugging her dogs away. When she finally managed to disentangle her dogs from my son (which she did with almost zero help from me, because I felt the dogs looked a little too shifty to be messed with), she briskly continued her walk down the street while Andy cried out after them. I assume that the lady took her dogs for more walks that summer, but I can only assume since I never saw them again. She may have been avoiding us.

The only thing that Andy may love almost as much as dogs is balloons. If a dog were to walk through our front door with a big yellow balloon tied to its tail, Andy's heart would probably explode from the sheer joy of it all. So, if you love my son, don't ever ever ever get him a dog attached to a balloon. Or a balloon attached to a dog.

Now that Andy's actions prove my father's initial assessment of Andy being a dog-loving kid correct, he's been threatening to buy Andy a puppy. This enrages Chris, who has threatened him right back. "If you give us one puppy, we'll give you two," he states, jabbing his finger in the air angrily. To Chris, this is the ultimate punishment. More dogs.

I know that my father wouldn't actually give Andy a puppy without our permission, so I'm not terribly concerned about the pending puppy war between him and Chris. What I am concerned with is that my dad is right, and that Andy's going to "need" his own dog. And that we're going to wind up getting it for him. The thought of having a dog sends a shiver up my spine, but I guess I could find it in my heart to cope with it if it's something that will- way, way down the road- make my son happy.

When I discuss with Chris that dog ownership might be a real possibility, though, he just leaves the house for a while and takes a long car ride by himself. I can only imagine him driving down the seedier streets of the city, searching for the best and friendliest looking bum for his son.