A Boy and His Dog

So my daughter is ready to roll out the red carpet for Scott and his daughter. She may even run down it to greet them in her ball gown.

My son can barely quicken his pulse. Or so it seems. I am sure there is more to it than that.

Loyalty concerns – “I’m not going to like anyone but Dad. I don’t care if he’s Tim Tebow. You can’t make me.”

Anxiety – “What if Scott doesn’t like me? I am not good at math.”

Jealousy – “We’ve kind of liked monopolizing Mom’s attention for the past few months. She can drop everything and drive over to Dad’s to hand deliver my Gameboy to me in her pajamas on a Saturday night if she’s not always off on mini-vacations.”

Disinterest – "Ho hum. Here we go again. And tell me why we have to do this? Must I participate? Yawn."

Meanwhile my girl is puttin’ on the Ritz. I wonder what Scott’s girl is doing?

I call him. I have a suggestion. Remembering when I was first at his house, I suggest that it might be a really great idea to bring one of the dogs. Something to distract us all from the moment and focus all our attentions on something fun. What better than a dog?

“Great idea!! Sure I can. Which one?”

I am not a dog person any more than I am a wine person. I could no more answer this question than I could “Would the Steak Au Poivre be better paired with the 2002 August Briggs Petite Sirah or the 2003 Norman Vineyards The Monster Zin?” Clueless. Eany Meany Miney Moe. All the same to me. You pick.

I say as much.

“Ernie would be the easiest. He won’t run away or jump around. But he sheds a lot. A LOT, " declares Scott, thinking out loud.

I picture my vacuum going up in flames.

“Not Snoop?” I ask. I have seen pictures of him sitting idle while the girls dress him in bathing suits and clothes and sunglasses and hats. Cool as a cucumber. My kind of disposition. Barely breathing.

“No. Snoopy’s bad. The minute you open the door he’ll be down the street chewing on the mailman.”

Good to know.

I guess that leaves Charlie. Neurotic and scratchy. But very cute and loves to be cuddled in your arms like a baby. And small enough to sit on our laps. And to stuff into the breadbox if he’s that bad.

So we agreed that the next morning, Charlie and his bowl and leash would come calling with Scott and his daughter.

Good grief, Charlie Brown.