Of Dogs and Men

Growing up, we had a dog.  Taffy.  She was great.  She was a big golden retriever who escaped her pen like Houdini, chased our chickens, left presents on the neighbors' lawns.  More particularly, one neighbor.  But since they lived three blocks away, forget cleaning it up!  We just ran as fast as our skinny little legs would carry us.  Taffy regularly raced down the street, dragging us racing behind her, desperately gripping the leash.  She was a giant pillow for us to lay on, a stinky, dependable friend.  We loved her like another sibling.  One that really needed a bath and got left outside, staring with those sad puppy eyes, begging to come in, waiting for her moment to dash, guiltily, inside the house.  Just to get kicked right back out.  And only got the table scraps.  Poor other sibling.

I have nothing but good memories of Taffy and always thought I would have a house full of animals when I grew up.  Then I grew up.  But I was talking to my sister, Monica, about her giant of a dog and it started to pull at those heart strings once again.  He was the pillow, the friend, the confidant her children needed!  After that, she gave me a nice dose of reality to clear the clouds.  Chewed shoes.  Accidents.  Chases from a grasp at freedom.  Going outside in the cold, like it or not.  I already have five young children.  I'm not quite ready for another one.

When Elias and Isaac were little, I discovered a book.  Good Boy, Fergus!  By David Shannon.  

The dog in the book was a terrible listener, followed all the wrong commands, repeated bad behavior, got rewarded for it, peed everywhere, and walked all over everybody, but was always excitable and happy and so lovable that he got whatever he wanted.  Hmmm...  I felt like I was reading my life's story.  Parenthood is not the endless fun, giggles, picnics in the park, clean house, games and laughter every night that we hoped it would be.  But sometimes it is.  We're not always the patient, kind, loving parents we thought that we would be.  But sometimes we are.  Our kids aren't the obedient, sweet, chore-and-homework-doing-without-complaining kids that we had imagined.  But sometimes, by miracle, they are.  We get glimpses of who they, and we, can become and we feel hope and excitement for life. 

So sometimes they disgust us.  And sometimes they make us want to pull our hair out.  And sometimes they bring out a monster inside of us we didn't even know existed, and quite frankly, are a little ashamed of.  But only sometimes!  They are also so excitable and happy and so lovable that sometimes they get whatever they want.  It's really not such a bad life story.