Growing up we moved a lot. My father worked in international development, so we lived in spans of three years here, four years there. We always had dogs, as I recall, and moving on was tough. We always made sure the dogs had a good home to go to, but it still felt like a betrayal of sorts.
Fast forward 30 years.
My son turns 12 tomorrow, and he’s wanted a dog for as long as he could say the word. But I’ve resisted: There’s walking it in winter. There’s hair. There’s scratches to the hardwood. And there’s poop. Lots and lots of poop. But recently I’ve had a softening of the heart, and we’re gearing up to meet the newest member of the family. We went to a breeder, asked what was on its way, and now we’re waiting.
By sheer coincidence, it appears the dog – a chocolate brown lab puppy – will be born tomorrow. It was supposed to be today, but nature being what it is, it won’t be rushed. So now my son’s dog is set to be born, yep, on my son’s birthday.
I just think that’s all kinds of cool.