Jensen thinks he’s a dog.
He thinks he’s a dog.
I believe I mentioned a few months ago that while I was recording our outgoing message on the answering machine, he took to barking in the background.
Rather realistic barking.
Prompting those who called to question whether I had abandoned my ‘no more pets clause’ in favor of adopting a canine.
I had hoped this “dog faze” would mercifully come to an end. It has, instead, intensified.
Jensen’s allergist warned us against getting a dog while he’s dealing with all of his Atopic Dermatitis issues. I may have kissed the doctor. I DON’T HAVE TO BE THE BAD GUY ANYMORE. YOU ARE, DR. ALLERGY! YOU ARE!
Not long after this Jensen began favoring Scooby Doo Underwear and gummy snacks. Then came the incessant barking, and walking about on all-fours. And howling at the moon (a favorite among our neighbors). He has been requesting that we let him pee outside, but that’s where I have to uncharacteristically side with the Homeowner’s Association and deny his request.
This behavior is not limited to the private confines of our home. Oh no. Jensen morphs into dog wherever we go. Much to the horror of his sisters.
Just today we visited the post office. I had warned Jensen the Dog to resume boy form when we entered the post office. So that no elderly patrons would trip over him. We found the post office strangely void of line, and Jensen saw this as an opportunity to drop to the ground. To cool off his tummy on the cement floor. If Emme and Cailey could have turned themselves inside out in an effort to conceal their identity as his older sisters, they would have. Cailey of course shrieked “JENSEN!” which never fails to draw more attention to her brother’s antics.
When we climbed back into the sweltering van, and Jensen commenced with the panting, Emme mentioned to me how embarrassing it was to have a dog as a little brother.
I rather enjoyed recounting her experiences as the proud owner of an invisible dog named Barko. Of which she claimed to have no memory. But one of the joys of blogging is that the Barko phase is chronicled here.
We’ve also had a rather difficult time coercing Jensen the Dog into eating with utensils. He prefers sticking his snout into his plate and eating without the benefit of civilized silverware.
Tonight at dinner, Fiddledaddy had experienced enough of attempting to get the kid to eat. He announced to Jensen that he would simply go to bed hungry.
I announced to Fiddledaddy that it was his turn to keep Jensen’s monitor on his side of the bed tonight and if the child should wake up with hunger pains, Fiddledaddy would be the one to tend to him.
Fiddledaddy did what any mature and knowledgeable parent would do.
He placed Jensen’s plate on the floor and told him to go for it.
(please take note of the AWESOME cheap white linoleum that I thought was such
a good idea when we built this house.)
Jensen fell on all-fours and lapped up his dinner as though he hadn’t been fed in days. And his dinner of Cheeseburger Pie, by happy coincidence, really did resemble Alpo. With a couple of Cheetos thrown in for fun.
Emme rolled her eyes, shook her head and left the table in disgust. Her father called after her, “HEY, THIS PARENTING THING? WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE’RE DOING!”
And then we recounted how we were afraid that Emme would starve when she was a toddler, because she refused to eat anything. Unless it was found on the floor.
So we started strategically tossing her food to the floor and it was no longer an issue, as she would eat every last bite.
And let it be known that with the first child, my floors were considerably cleaner.
That is not the case today, with 3 children. One of whom is a dog. We no longer have a “5 second rule.” If it isn’t covered with ants and hair, it’s edible.
Frankly I’m just shocked that we haven’t been approached to do a how-to parenting reality show.
Please throw me a bone people, and tell me that I’m not alone.
Or feel free to suggest a good therapist. For me. Not the dog.