How About a Granddog?

Were it not for the daily barrage of letters, e-mails, phone calls, postcards and carrier pigeons seeking donations for my beloved alma mater, I would say my five-year college reunion is still at least two years away.

Alas, it was two weeks ago. And I have no choice but to face the fact that – while I still feel like an 18-year-old ingénue with an industrious life plan that no one dare put asunder – I am 27, married, living in the suburbs and mother to a furry little rascal who will one day have to share my attention with several human little rascals.

It’s amazing how quickly we pass those life-changing markers, and how unremarkable they feel at the time.

Five years after leaving the halls of Busch Light and higher education, I can’t say exactly when the automatic response to “I have news” shifted from “you got promoted” or “you’re buying that car you keep talking about.” Rather, if the announcer is unmarried, the answer is that they got engaged. If they’re already hitched, then they’re pregnant. End of story.

In half the time it took the New York Yankees to regain their reputation, for example, six of my 10 closest friends tied the knot or bought the ring and two actually created human babies. The latter is still difficult to conceive (no pun intended), even though my own matronly intentions were – until recently – the go-to conversation topic of family and friends.

Perhaps that’s why when the timing seemed right for me and Chris to expand our family – part of that ambitious life plan that includes publishing a book, buying my dream home, visiting every place in the “Before You Die” series, and eventually raising human offspring – I phrased the news this way in a group e-mail:

“I wanted to make this announcement earlier, but Chris and I had to wait until we were sure. We've been talking for a little while about adding to our family, and it's finally time to spread the news...”

Then I asked them to scroll down…

“We’re getting a puppy!”

It might have been cruel, but it had some degree of payback and was my way of tackling the expectation that a certain age means marriage for a woman marriage requires immediate kids. Hold your horses, everyone: My oven’s not broken yet, and I’ve already got the cook.

Shadow’s four months old now (about three in human years), and because I’m really only about 12 inside we’ve been getting along great. 

Like me, he likes to play and then rest for disproportionate amounts of time; he loves nature and food (although I’d choose chicken over moss any day); he enjoys a little Tom Petty; he gets hyperactive without warning and for no apparent reason; he finds it fun to torture my husband, and he has a rare recessive hair color that attracts many a comment from strangers.

And that brings me to the topic that has thankfully usurped my womb as prime conversation at family gatherings: No, he’s not a Weimaraner or a pit bull. He’s a silver Labrador retriever – a very rare shade of the most common breed. Once that mystery wears off, I’ll either have to buy some maternity duds or give Shadow a black-coated golden retriever step brother…

For now, however, I’m focused on exploring this new role of puppy mom. It’s been a blast so far, and I’m content knowing that whether the sun is shining or the sky is filled with stormy grey… I’ll never be without my Shadow ;)