All Boy From Here On Out

This morning I came face to face with the reality that I have a boy not a baby on my hands.

We were on our way out the door. I need to put the stroller in the car, so I set the not-so-wee one down in the driveway while I started folding down the third row of seats in my car. I figured he’d maybe toddle into the garage and annoy the dog for a minutes. I got one seat down, popped the stroller in the back of the car, and turned around to grab the baby to hoist him into his car seat. My dog was standing right next to me, but no baby. A little panic flared up, but I quickly convinced myself that he hadn’t gone far.

Turns out he had wandered over to my mom’s little shade garden. No biggie. And actually he looked kind of cute playing in among all the plants. But as I looked at him, something wasn’t right. His hair was soaking wet. I took two more steps closer to him and realized that it wasn’t just his hair; both his jacket and pants were soaked. My child–yes, the one that just a half hour before had had a bath–had found the sprinkler.

But it wasn’t just that his once-dry clothes were now sopping wet. No, just sticking his hands and face into the sprinkler wasn’t quite enough. A medium sized pool of mud and dirt had collected around the base of the sprinkler and my child was sitting, splashing in it. Of course that looked like loads of fun, so the dog jumped in.

I’m totally running late, so I run over and grab the kid, taking him far, far away from the sprinkler. He was covered in head-to-toe mud, so I started stripping my just-bathed child down in the middle of the driveway. I took off his jacket and threw it on the ground. I started shimmying off his pants when the dog stole the jacket and ran circles around me with it hanging out of his mouth. So now I’m chasing the dog around the driveway and my filthy offspring is toddling around behind me, one thunder thigh still in his pants and the other bare. Somehow he wriggled his one leg free of the pantleg and took off toward the house just as I nab the jacket from the dog. Looking for more fun times, the dog bounded toward him. The kid basically turned right into the dog, losing his balance, and face planting into the cement garage floor.

I collect my bawling child, tie up the dog, and head to the car; I am 20 minutes late at this point. I put my kid in the car seat– soakied onesie, dirt-filled shoes, and all–and realize that with his tumble we’ve now added blood to this mix of dirt and water. His cheek was swollen and crosshatched with scratches. I couldn’t believe he’d already stopped crying.

Needless to say, hot mess pretty much sums the whole ridiculous situation up. The one redeeming part was that I fortunately had a set of dry clothes in a diaper bag stashed in the car, so I was able to change him in the church parking lot. (Classy.) And I was able to clean up the blood and dirt on his face with a baby wipe. But there wasn’t much I could do about the dirt caking his feet. It’s safe to say this little boy is definitely all boy.

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All Joeys Go To Heaven

Sorry for having gone radio silent over the past couple of weeks, but we’ve had a bit of a pall over our maison since our beloved Doberman Joey exited this world.

Best Dog in the World

We always knew Joey was never going to be an old dog. To say he had health issues would be an understatement. He was the sole survivor of a small litter, was blind in one eye, and was most often under some sort of treatment for things like a sensitive stomach or itchy skin. In fact, his ailments pretty much turned me into a canine chef, whipping up gourmet dinners of white rice, ground meat, and $60 a bag venison dog food nightly to keep him a healthy dog.

Although I always knew Joey’s life was going to end sooner rather than later, I still never thought he’d be two years old, almost to the day, when we lost him. And never would I have ever guessed it’d be the stuffing to toy that would lead to his unraveling.

See, we almost lost Joey once before. He contracted leptospirosis, a rare and very severe bacterial infection that landed him in the doggy ICU for five days. I’m embarrassed to say how much it cost–seriously double the figure you have in your head–but I would’ve spent it all over again for that dog. In fact, I almost did.

Joey was a lot of things–a goof, a gourmand, and a guardian, to name a few–but above all he was my friend. We learned a lot together. While he learned to sit, lie down, and shake, I learned to be more patient, forgiving, and reliable. He reminded me that life was best lived simply, measured by nothing more complicated than a long walk, a beautiful day, or a good cup of coffee. I’m pretty sure I can say that I was a better person by the end of his short life than when my husband picked him up at the baggage claim at Reagan National.

Needless to say, he was much loved and is much missed. But one of the things I most regret about this most regrettable event is that baby will miss out on Joey; he would have been the best dog any boy could have. I had already imagined seeing baby’s little footie-pajama feet straddling Joey’s back and his little arms wrapped around his big, muscular neck.

But I guess for as much as we can mourn the memories that never will be, it’s best to just remember the good times that were and hope, as my sister said, that doggie heaven is filled with plastic Elvis chickens and spoons full of peanut butter, two of Joey’s favorite things.