Fiddledeedee

I know that I included a small portion of this saga in my Christmas letter last year, but as per usual, I felt the need to gild the lily.

When I was pregnant with Jensen, I had to have my almost 20 year old cat, Katie, put to sleep. Afterward I had a “no-more-pet-clause” written into my contract. Since then, Emme has been campaigning hard for a dog. “We don’t need a dog, we have Jensen” is my standard reply. “But Mommmmmyyy, Jensen’s not a dog, he’s just a baby,” she whines. “Well, he eats off the floor, chews on shoes, and he’s certainly not housebroken,” I holler after her as she flounces out of the room. He also licks the electrical outlets, but we don’t like to talk about that.

One day, she was quietly working on a project at the kitchen table. Upon completion, she stealthily headed toward the tape dispenser. I asked her what she was doing. With reluctance, she showed me her “Lost Dog” poster. Included was her name, our phone number, and a drawing of the type of dog she would most like to have. She reasoned that if someone should happen upon a dog like this, they would give her a call. Mommy put her size 7 1/2 foot down with a firm “no.”

Next, she woke up one morning and announced that God told her she would have a dog by 11 a.m. Anxiously, she watched the clock. By noon there was no dog. I did think about serving hot dogs for lunch, but reconsidered.

Finally, one day thinking she had given up, I heard her at the back door saying sternly, “No Barko, be quiet.” Dubious, I asked her who she was talking to. She said, “my dog Barko.” Allrightythen. So, Emme continues to reprimand her new found friend throughout the afternoon. Cailey, with her curiosity finally piqued, asks, “Who’s Barko?” “Our dog” was the sisterly reply. “We don’t have a dog” counters Cailey. “Uh huh.” “Nu huh.” “Uh huh.” “Nu huh.” This verbal tennis match went on for awhile. Nonplussed, Cailey finally goes to the sliding glass door, with her hands on her hips and deadpans, “Oh. We do have a dog.” Then almost immediately they begin arguing over who Barko belongs to.

So, we have an imaginary dog named “Barko.” I think this is a great compromise. The girls have a dog (although we may have to get an additional dog so they won’t fight over him), and I don’t have another mouth to feed, or another behind to clean up after.

Recently, however, after a particularly exhausting day with Barko the dog, Emme comes into the room, where I’m nursing my 5th cup of coffee, and throws herself down on the floor with a heavy sigh saying, “I wish we didn’t have a dog, they are so much hard work.”