I often wonder what the most fundamental difference is between raising dogs and kids (next to college tuition, of course). This week, I believe I found my answer.
It all started out with an ill-contrived plan with the best of intentions. … The children each received a chocolate chip cookie for their outstanding behavior in the Kids’ Club at Big Y (meaning, nothing in their immediate surroundings shattered, disintegrated or burst into flames, which is more than can be expected when a two, three and five-year-old trio is around). Just before they each took a bite, I confiscated all three cookies with one ceremonial swipe and stuffed them into my purse.
Dinner before dessert—that was the plan. And it would have gone without a hitch, had I remembered how much two-year-olds enjoy pillaging purses while their mothers are busy putting away the groceries.
I witnessed only the tail end of the crime—Anna was at the scene, face smeared with her chocolaty booty, and one of our two dogs, the Bean, licking her chops, with all three wrappers at her feet. Seeing how the dog can scarf down ten cookies per nanosecond, it took no Sherlock Holmes to deduce what happened: it was one for Anna, and two for the Bean.
I used to fantasize about living the life of a dog—until I remembered dogs can’t eat chocolate. That old wives’ tale about dogs dying from eating it isn’t true—unless, of course, their owners kill them for leaving runny souvenirs all over the living room rug.
When I discovered the first puddle, I was in the midst of ushering three kids into their beds, and I had no time to stop and clean it. It was a small scatter rug, so I picked it up and cast it onto the front porch.
That night, when it was time to let the dogs out one last time, Rosie walked out, glanced curiously at the rug, sniffed it, and continued on her way.
The Bean, on the other hand, took one look at the rug and veered right, keeping a wide berth while making her way to the lawn. She ambled on to the opposite end of the property, and sat watching from afar as I cleaned the rug. Once finished, I called her in, and ever so slowly she slinked her way back to me, steering clear of the front porch for as long as possible, then, ears back, belly low to the ground, she darted past my feet and into the house. She wouldn’t look me in the eye for the rest of the night.
The truth about raising dogs: no matter how many of them you have, even if you can beat out the cast of 101 Dalmatians, no matter what kind of catastrophe (or dogastrophe, as you would have it) unfurls, you will never have a mystery to unravel. You will always know whodunit.
Compare this incident to one earlier this week, when I discovered that one of two, if not both, mischievous imps had driven a box of nails into the floor of the $280 jumpy house that was supposed to keep them busy for the next five years. There were so many holes in the once-inflatable house that it lay limp and lifeless, never to be resurrected again.
“WHO DID THIS?” I demanded, with nothing to go on but an empty box and two poker-faced kids.
“Eva did it,” Tyler reported, without batting an eye.
“Eva, did you do this?” I interrogated.
“I didn’t see myself do it,” she refuted. “It was Tyler.”
Tyler’s defense was just as solid. “It wasn’t me,” he insisted. “I haven’t jumped in that house for a quintillion years!”
I searched their body language. Both were still. Neither blinked nor flinched. Both looked me square in the eye.
And so, getting back to that fundamental question…what is the biggest difference between raising dogs and kids? It took me five long years to figure it out, yet it’s about as blatant as a dog who just pooped all over the living room rug.
Love mysteries? Have kids. Tired of solving them? Have dogs.