My son really is the best-behaved little squirt that we could have hoped for. In the face of panic and crisis, his stoic demeanour has a way of calming his dad down as well.
Plus, he is now a big fan of his mother's coleslaw. Having shoved the last chunk of a cookie in his mouth (remnants of which still lingered tellingly on his forehead, cheeks and There's Something About Mary-esque hair), he was very quick this evening to extend both arms towards the bowl from which I was eating and spew crumbs with an urgent, "UH! UH!" The startled look in his eyes revealing his incredulity at the fact that here it was, a full three seconds after his polite request, and nothing more than a tolerant smile from the parental unit.
"Son, you'll have to swallow your cookie first, and then I'll share my coleslaw." Like he can understand me or something, but I refuse to talk gibberish to him. I would have been remiss in my parental duties had I not shared my 'slaw. A 14 month-old boy yearning for a bowl full of shredded cabbage, carrots, celery and cucumber? There are many parents who would drop dead in amazement at such a youth yearning for vegetables.
(I'm getting to the panic and crisis part, just in a rather circuitous manner.)
My wife having just left to work for the evening, our dinner was the last event before turning off the f--king television to go run some errands:
- Dump grass clippings and weeds off at the recycle/compost place.
- Go fill the jogging stroller's tires with air so Dad can take boy for long run tomorrow.
- Go buy groceries so the boy's next dinner doesn't consist of a cookie, half a bowl of coleslaw and frozen chicken nuggets. (Well, I cooked the nuggets!)
After herding the dogs down to the back landing (doggie door access to the outside), we strapped ourselves into Sarah (my silver GMC Sierra) and trucked off.
I have no idea what attracts my son's attention these days, but whenever we're in a vehicle he invariably spends most of his time jabbing one arm straight out, index finger pointed unerringly at something, and proclaiming, "Tchuh!! Uh! Buh buh da da BWEEEEE!" He will then look at you, quite seriously, as if to ensure that you grasp the significance of the discovery he has deigned to share. Our driving to and fro, thither and yon this evening was punctuated quite regularly by such interjections. Placatingly, I looked each time in the general direction of where his astounded gaze, and helpful finger, wandered. More often than not though it was at the back of the passenger seat's head rest.
Upon returning home, the short bump up the driveway was not accompanied by the customary sight of two dogs panting in relief at the gate of the fence, thankful beyond belief that I didn't actually abandon them to a slow and painful death by starvation, which is what their woeful yipping leads me to believe every time I pull out of the driveway. In their place was a pile of their poop, but no dogs. (I swear, we've doubled the number of dogs at our house but the poop volume has increased exponentially.)
Depositing the groceries and the boy in the kitchen, a quick investigation of the back landing and the back yard revealed only some ripped plastic chicken wire that had been in place to block egress from loose fence slats. Shit.
Securing Declan in his stroller (not the jogging one), he was very helpful in ensuring the tray was properly swung into place and we were off for a brisk walk around the neighbourhood, whistling and calling for the dogs. It began to rain, very slightly.
Ten minutes later and no effin' idea where the mutts would have wandered, we returned home so I could check the phone on the off chance somebody called. We walked in the gate first to go in the back door. The neighbour dad was playing in his back yard with his daughter. And our dogs.
Seems the neighbour daughter saved the day. Standing at her living room window a short while earlier, she raised her arm and pointed forcefully outside in much the same way that Declan had been. "Puppies," she stated. (One of her first, and still only, words.) The dad, not seeing responsible adults with the puppies, rescued them and confined them to his own back yard until one of his irresponsible neighbours returned home. That was me.
Now, I seriously doubt that Declan's ubiquitous pointing this evening had anything to do with the innate knowledge of his missing dogs, but he sure as heck wasn't pointing at anything I could make sense of.
The inpetus behind the actions of children in general are still, and will continue for a very long time to be, something of an enigma. When actively engaged in the task of raising my son, I do my best at times to regress a little and put myself in the child's point of view while still wearing the Dad hat. It's a very nice hat, with golden filigree and a shiny black visor. Chafes a bit.
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