It's All in the Family

The only explanation for what I'm about to say is that I have finally gone off the deep end. A few weeks ago, I let the kids get a dog. He's a rescue dog from a shelter in the next state over. Obviously someone's family pet, it's possible that he wandered so far from his home that his owners were unable to find and claim him. We named him Oliver Twist because he was in a deplorable state when he came to us. Half golden retriever, half beagle, fur dirty and matted with a nasty infection in one foot where he had been trapped in a hunter's snare before he was rescued and taken to the shelter.

Three weeks later, he is healed, grateful and starved for attention, following us from room to room as we go about the business of life. It's taken me a few weeks to fully trust him around the kids. I initially regarded him suspiciously, lest he should suddenly turn and go all Cujo on one of us.

K however took to him immediately, showering him with hugs so tight I've actually seen his eyes bulge out of their sockets. "Gentle, gentle" is a constant refrain around here, and I'm not talking to the dog. Oliver in return shows extraordinary patience and tolerance toward this loud, bossy little person who follows him around the house instructing him in what to do and what not to do.

A couple of days after he came to live with us, I turned the corner into the kitchen to find K laying with her torso sprawled across the dog's midsection. She was using one hand to pull his upper lip over his canine teeth. All I could see was the face of my sweet daughter inches from the vicious incisors of an uncivilized beast. In my usual calm and unruffled manner, I quietly said, "Let's not play with Oliver's lips K." I immediately freaked out.

ME: "What are you doing?!!!!"

K: "I want to see his teeth."

ME: "Let's not touch Oliver's lips, okay?"

K: "Why not?"

OLIVER: Looks at me as if to say, "Chill out lady."

A few days after that, I turned the corner into the living room and found K using her hair brush to methodically comb the knots out of Oliver's fur. Again, I handled the situation with the kind of serene reaction I would imagine Mother Theresa would have had.  Completely horrified, I grabbed the hair brush from K's hand and began scrubbing it in the kitchen sink while lecturing her on why we don't use our personal grooming tools on the dog.

When I was getting ready for bed that evening, I reached for my toothbrush, which I keep next to my bathroom sink. Oliver stood at the bathroom door watching me. He yawned lazily, and I glanced over at his exceptionally shiny pearly whites and then back down at the toothbrush in my hand before chucking it in the trash can. I decided it would be safer to buy a new one in the morning and resolved to store it much higher up.