We just got a dog. My daughter wanted one with increasing certainty; she has been sharpening her debating skills on the subject for the last three years. I had a dog when I was a kid and it seemed unfair to deny my daughter the formative experience of pet ownership (fish, she argued, don’t count). So, my wife and I said yes.
I wanted a rescue dog, something sturdy and older, an animal that had already been house trained. As a measure of how much authority I have in our household, we got a specially-bred, eight-week-old Puggle named Ginger.
The first thing Ginger did as part of our family was throw up in the car on the way home. Repeatedly. With a mixture of concern and admiration I watched my daughter mop up the yellowing ooze with a hand towel that was too small for the job. My son grew tense as the towel neared its maximum absorbency. “I feel so sorry for her,” he whimpered. I’m not sure if he meant Ginger or my daughter. We drove on.
Once home, Ginger perked up. We invited her to explore the house, at least the area we’d left accessible, having cordoned off most of the rooms with baby gates and, as it turns out, poorly conceived plywood barricades which Ginger brushed aside within minutes of her arrival.
Toilet training was paramount so we showed Ginger the yard. Once she’d bitten the leaves off the basil plant, she dug up the goldfish we’d buried in the garden a few months before. My daughter was unfazed by the desecration of these graves, despite the modest ceremonies we’d held there. I guess fish really don’t count.
– Yannick