Currently viewing the tag: "grandchildren"
You should know that last week my parents finally got the grandchild they’ve been waiting for. There’s a new cuddly object of affection in the house who is keeping my parents up all night, and his name is Wilson.
Wilson is some kind of gourmet dog–a golden poo, or a doodlecocker. I’m not sure exactly, but I do know that my parents spent months on a waiting list to adopt this miniature, hypoallergenic home-wrecker.
Last night my sister and I received the following email:
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Dear Daughters,
I thought I should send along the proper vocabulary to use with Wilson before your next visit. Consistency is everything and perhaps if I had practiced that principle that with you both things might have turned out differently.
“Leave it”– applies to untying shoelaces, pulling at the rugs, taking things off tabletops, chewing shoes, eating the newspaper, emptying the wastebaskets, etc. This is to be said in a firm, no nonsense tone of voice.
“ComeWilson” –this is used to get him out of the street, to get him into the house, to distract him from digging up the perennials, etc. Tone of voice is upbeat, excited, as in it is an exciting thing for him to do what you are asking. He gets a treat for this.
“Go Potty”— I know, he doesn’t actually sit on the toilet, but this term if better than “do-business”, “go pee”, “go poopy”, etc. The latter two require understanding of the difference between pee and poop, and frankly I don’t give a damn as long as it isn’t done in the house. Tone of voice somewhat urgent here, like you don’t have all day to wait. Gets a treat every time, even when he fakes it.
“Sit” — an essential command to keep him from running away when you try to grab him. Always gets a treat for this .
“No bite”—applies to nearly everything that comes within his range of sight right now, so master this command before you set foot in the door. This includes your hands, elbows, clothing, your bedding, all furniture legs, rugs, and anything not tied down. Tone of voice here is sharp, quick, authoritative.
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I was also told that Wilson will be starting puppy kindergarten next week. I can only assume this is because my mother senses he’s on the verge of mastering all of her pedestrian commands, and that his active brain is hungry for more. My hope is that puppy kindergarten will teach him the fundamentals that will give him the leg-up on an Ivy League canine education, where he will crack under the pressure, lose several years to pot, and eventually find himself and start a volunteer program to service displaced squirrels.
My mom also shared her plans to bring Wilson into Fetch (one of three local pet stores, but the one with the most caché) in the hopes that they will want to feature him in some of their promotional materials. (We once had a golden retriever who, on one serendipitous morning run, was “scouted” by L.L. Bean photographers in the midst of a photo shoot. Our pooch made the catalog, catapulting its owners into a glorious anonymous fame, now immortalized in the full-page parka ad that hangs on our refrigerator.)
When I asked for a photo of this prodigy puppy with striking good looks who is cunning enough to “fake it” for treats, she sent me this:
I took one look at this doggy Baby Bjorn and I knew my mother had completely lost her mind. I was horrified until I realized that somehow, in his puppy-genius way, Wilson has managed to hit “snooze” on my mother’s grandparental biological clock. To which I reply in a calm, authoritative tone: “Sit, Mother…Stay.”
Related Disasters:
My sister, her husband and I headed east this weekend for my cousin’s baby shower.
On Saturday morning my dad came downstairs wearing a “World’s Greatest Grandpa” t-shirt. Which would be fine, except for the fact that my dad is not a grandpa.
But he has aspirations, and I can’t help but get the sense that as his oldest daughter, I may be getting in the way of his dreams.
My dad also loves the swap shop. The swap shop is where Yankees leave things at the dump that are too nice to throw away. Like doilies, jam jars and in some cases treasures like this:
So when World’s Greatest Grandpa went to take our trash to the dump and stumbled upon “Horsie” he couldn’t help but bring him home. Horsie has now lived in our basement for approximately 36 menstrual cycles. He sits next to “Moosie,” the 4-foot stuffed animal that my father rescued from the swap shop last summer with similar grandchild visions.
On Saturday afternoon while the women in our living room were “oohing” and “awwing” over baby presents like they were Fourth of July fireworks, my dad pounced on the chance to introduce Horsie to the crowd. He ran down to the basement, retrieved his swap shop prize, and displayed him prominently in the living room, signaling to guests that our house is, in fact, “grandchild friendly.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s betting on the wrong horse. So I just hid my sister’s birth control pills instead.
