Take this short quiz and try to figure out if the scenarios mentioned happened to my puppy or one to of my kids, when he/she was a toddler. After the completion of this quiz, you will have a better understanding of what day-to-day life is like at my house.

1. Was it my puppy or my toddler who threw up on a road trip?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The correct answer is C. Most recently, our puppy left a tidy little pile of vomit in her puppy crate on her first long car trip. And, a few years before that, on a trip to grandma’s, our daughter had an epic projectile vomiting session all over the back seat.

2. Was it my puppy or my toddler who has previously eaten poop?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The correct answer is C. While it may be no surprise my puppy has eaten the feces of geese, cats, other dogs and likely her own, you may be surprised to learn one of my kids has eaten it as well. A few years back, my kids were playing with a friend’s daughter. She was going through a phase of taking off her own diapers and flinging them (and their contents) across the room. I wasn’t paying attention to what the kids were doing for a few minutes and the next thing I knew, it looked like my kid had just eaten a plate full of brownies. That was not a good day.

3. Was it my puppy or my toddler who regularly peed outdoors?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The correct answer is C. Are you seeing a pattern here yet? While our puppy only pees outside about 50% of the time (the other 50% being indoor accidents), if we’re in our backyard swimming, my daughter “goes behind the bushes” 100% of the time. Better than in the pool, I guess.

4. Was it my puppy or my toddler who ate food out of the trash can?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

Again, the correct answer is C. Once or twice, the puppy snagged a piece of garbage from the trash can and dragged it around the house, chewing on whatever food scrap or Kleenex she rescued. Also, my son was once found elbows deep in our kitchen trash can, enjoying the remains of his big sister’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I guess that’s one way to find out your kid isn’t allergic to nuts.

5. Was it my puppy or my toddler who slept at least one night in my bed?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

Until recently, I would’ve said the answer was B, but come to find out the answer is actually C. While our kids have all slept in our bed, I didn’t find out the puppy slept there until I got back from a trip out of town. I asked my wife why she let the puppy sleep on my side of the bed, she said that wasn’t where just one puppy slept, it was where both our dogs slept. Good grief.

6. Was it my puppy or my toddler who attended school?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

You guessed it, the correct answer is C. Our toddlers have always managed at least one day of preschool, and without fail, no matter how bad their behavior was at home, every preschool teacher said they were perfect while in class. Puppy school is part of our routine as well. We spend an hour each week watching our puppy act like an angel for her dog trainer, then go right back into “devil dog” mode when she gets home.

7. Was it my puppy or my toddler who bit my wife and was bitten back by her?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

Without getting into too much detail, the correct answer is C. Let’s just say there’s no longer any biting at our house.

8. Was it my puppy or my toddler who had bedtime stories read to them?

a. puppy
b. toddler
c. all of the above

The final answer on the quiz is … B. C’mon, you didn’t really think we’d read to our dog, did you?

If you got a perfect score on the quiz, you likely live a life similar to mine, and for that I take pity on the chaos you endure on a daily basis.

A version of this first appeared on Indy’s Child. Photo: ©nuzza11 / Adobe Stock.

Consider this an early Father’s Day tribute to my dad. Put it in the category of “Things I Did When I Was a Kid That My Own Kid BETTER Not Do.”

When I was 12, I had a manageable chore list. Nothing extensive or unreasonable, although at the time I’m sure I thought I was doing the equivalent of those orphans in the Industrial Revolution who worked in a sooty, life-endangering factory for 14 hours at a stretch.

I was responsible for washing the dinner dishes. Vacuuming the living room. Cleaning my room and bathroom.

Scooping dog poop from the backyard.

That was the one. That was the chore I dreaded.

I loved our dog, a mop-headed cocker spaniel-poodle mix named Sophie. But I was bewildered at how a dog the size of a toaster could put out 50 pounds of crap a day.

And I absolutely hated being the one who had to pick it up.

Have dog, will scoop poop

My dad had a very specific rule about clearing dog poop: it had to be done every seven days. No one likes walking around the backyard, he said, feeling lush, velvety grass under their bare feet, and then experiencing a crunch-then-squoosh between their toes.

I understood that. And, since Sophie was my dog, all canine maintenance duties fell to me. Feeding, walking, and generally snuggling (all of which I was happy to do). But the biggest part of the gig was poop scooping.

I don’t even know why I hated doing it that much. I had a nice, wide plastic shovel and plenty of paper lunch bags. It didn’t take much skill to walk in a careful grid, spot the poop, lean down, scoop up the nuggets, and drop them in a bag. You could clear the yard of turd bombs in less than 20 minutes. No big deal.

But I still hated it.

Every Saturday morning, I would conveniently forget the job I had to do outside. I’d hunker down in my room, happily listening to music and reading comics, and then my dad would call to me.

“Seth, it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Son, please go outside and do your job.”

“What job?”

Selective Amnesia, I believe, is the correct term for my affliction.

“GO OUTSIDE AND SCOOP THE POOP.”

“OK, OK! God, you don’t have to yell.”

I would drag myself out of my room, get my tools (scooper, paper bags, heavy crown of martyrdom), and go outside to grumble my way through filling God knows how many bags with Sophie’s prolific output. Typically, that 20-minute job turned into three hours of oppressed servitude.

And then, one morning, I discovered a way to make the job way more fun.

The incident

Let me switch perspectives now, and talk of this particular Saturday from my father’s point of view:

I remember that my son Seth did not enjoy this particular chore when he was young. However, it remains a mystery to me why,  for years, the boy would rather spend two hours complaining than the 10 minutes it took to simply do it. 

On the Saturday in question, I did request that my son rise, get dressed, get the scooper, and clear the yard of our dog’s droppings. As was his fashion, he complained and procrastinated to an impressive degree, but after the whining was completed, he did go outside, scooper and bag in hand, albeit begrudgingly. I went upstairs to my office to do some work where, as it happened, I also happened to have a view of our back yard.

After a few minutes,  I glanced out the window to check on Seth’s progress. My mouth dropped open.

I was, in short, completely flabbergasted by what I was seeing.

I called to my wife: “Robin, you have to come in here.”

“What?”

“You need to come in here.”

“Why?”

“You need to come in here and look at this.”

“Look at what?”

“Just … you have to see what your son is doing.”

She joined me at the window and suddenly her expression matched mine as we watched in disbelief at what our son, our flesh and blood offspring, was doing.

“Oh, my Lord. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” she said.

“He is.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“Oh, my Lord. He’s about to do it again.”

“There he goes.”

“OH. MY. LORD.”

My turn again. So, out in the yard, I had no idea my parents were watching me, first in shock, then in anger, then with uncontrollable laughter.

Why were they laughing? Because rather than simply scooping and dropping poop into a bag, I was instead aiming my plastic shovel skyward, drawing back, and flinging the shit over the fence.

Into our neighbor’s yard.

I. WAS FLINGING DOG SHIT. INTO OUR NEIGHBOR’S YARD.

On Saturday morning. In broad daylight.

Unaware my parents were staring from the upstairs window, I continued to wing big ol’ nuggets over the fence, emptying our yard, and filling our neighbors. (The neighbors, by the way, had no dog.)

I developed a variety of techniques. I named them.

The Whiplash.

The Catapult.

The Over the Shoulder.

The Up, Up, and Away.

The Shit Bullet.

With each new toss, my technique gained more artistry. I gave each throw a wind-up, sometimes a leap and spin before a flick of my wrist sent the poop skyward, arcing gracefully in the sky and over the fence.

I was enjoying myself immensely.

I began wishing there was an Olympic event for this. Competitive Poop Throwing.

It hits the fan

Meanwhile, my parents continued to watch, equally shocked and entertained, crying with laughter as they saw me perfect my new talent. After a few minutes, they realized what I didn’t: at some point, our neighbors on the other side of the fence were likely to emerge from their own back door, hoping to enjoy their morning coffee on their patio, and instead get smacked in the face by flying dog shit.

Mom and Dad collected themselves, wiping away the tears of laughter, put on their Angry Parent faces, and opened the window, making me freeze in mid-throw:

“SETH ANDREW TAYLOR, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?!”

And with that, I was completely and fully busted, my future Olympic career ending before it began.

I don’t really remember the repercussions. I recall being yelled at. (I didn’t know how hard they’d been laughing from inside until years later when they started telling the story to friends, relatives, girlfriends, and basically anybody in town who knew me.) I have a vague memory of being forced to scale our back fence and retrieve all the poop I had sent over. It took forever (there was a lot), and I did so afraid that the neighbors would see me, come out and ask exactly what was going on.

Decades later, my dad still tells this story, and he does so with dramatic flair (despite the fact that his son is now a 46-year-old grown damn man, thank you very much). He relishes every detail, right down to the look on my face when he yelled out the window and I whirled around, instantly knowing I’d been caught doing something — well, just downright gross.

He particularly loves telling this story to my daughter, who never grows tired of hearing it. It’s their tradition. It’s their very own “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” (Gather round, kids, it’s time for the story of the Boy Who Sent Poop To The Sky!) Even now, at 15, she laughs hysterically when he spins the tale. The two of them, along with my mom, fall to pieces every time, laugh/crying like idiots. Every. Damn. Time.

As for me, I just sit and listen, remembering, and feeling grateful that my daughter doesn’t have a dog.

It is dark, and all of her world is asleep. She knows there are rules, and also that she is breaking them. It is all part of the thrill. She is stealthy, and no one will ever suspect a thing.

Valentine is 15 years old, according to the calendar, 105 when you factor for the canine. She was a gift to my wife on Valentine’s Day that many years ago. I had found her sitting alone, a small puppy in a big cage. She fit warmly in the palm of my hand as a teary-eyed woman thanked me for saving a dog’s life the day before it was scheduled to end. Valentine, to her credit, has made the most of it. Her entire life has been an expression in contrast: sweet and attentive as the day requires, a moveable feast of trash cans and cat food, and the hunting of stuffed animals throughout the wasteland of the boys’ room as soon as the lights go out.

Granted, neither provide the rush she used to know. Such things are a young dog’s game. Her lot is now left to the night kitchen, an uncovered recycling bin and the bag of pretzels forgotten on the table.

It is dark. She is steady and she is sneaky, a ninja on four paws. The night is hers for the taking.

I am awake in a moment, jarred upright by the sound of thunder in the hallway. It is the echo of can on hardwood, unsated cravings rummaging through a paper bag for the hint of bean or cheese or the aforementioned cat food. A bottle clinks against another, and still she digs all the deeper.

About two years ago, when we first realized Valentine had lost her hearing, we were afraid it would affect her quality of life. Initially, it did. For instance, she no longer stopped on a dime and ran the length of a field to wag at our side should someone but speak her name. Instead, she embraced the new freedom we had apparently allotted her. Finally, she assumed, they trust me to run along forever. Rather than cower from the challenge, the literal new trick for an old dog, she owned it. In fact, we wondered if she even knew.

That is what I wonder at midnight. My eyes are open in the blackness, and Valentine making all the noise of a toddler trying not to. She is enjoying this, I smile to myself. She thinks herself so damn clever.

There was a time, once, when I would have jumped out of bed, bent on putting a stop to it. However, I am riddled with the regrets of another old dog. That one died in my arms after 16 years of growing in them, my children stretching long upon her side, tufts of fur by the handful never pulling on her patience. She never knew anything but loving us. But one day, right before the last, I scolded her far too severely for my foot finding the fruits of her incontinence. And yet she sought me out when it was her time to pass, me crying in the green grass, whispering a plea of forgiveness into the soft give of her even as her eyes clouded over.

Valentine is almost there. Her ears were the first to go. Then her body filled with large lumps of cancer. Now, unbeknownst to her, she also leaves a trail of memories behind — a tangible pathway of unstepping stones atop the planks beneath her.

The boys know, and they don’t want to talk about it. They have known far too much loss in their short lives — my old dog, four cats, the neighbor’s peacocks that they obligatorily cared for, and countless fish. And those are just the animals. They have also lost two great-grandparents, two grandparents and two just as close. My children have loved, lost and know which is better. They have outgrown suits bought just for funerals, and they understand the things I wish they didn’t.

Perhaps Valentine is keenly aware, or, hopefully, joyfully oblivious. Maybe she is making the most of it.

And so I stay in bed, knowing a messy floor is a small price to pay for the happiness she has brought our family. As far as I’m concerned, she can burrow through the trash until the damn sun comes up, and endless mornings after. It’s the least we can do, and I don’t care what I step in.

“Tracheal collapse.”

That was the veterinarian’s foreboding diagnosis of our beloved family pet Benny, a Yorkie, two years ago. He was 3 years old at the time and had been having episodes of labored breathing. Through a series of vet visits, we learned that Yorkies often suffer from the slow tightening of their tracheas. If it escalates, they actually make a honking sound.

We had been able to manage Benny’s trachea until one night this past August when his honking returned with great intensity. My wife and I feared the worst as our two daughters slept. We gave Benny his meds and tried to calm him, but by 4 a.m. I couldn’t take it anymore and drove him to an emergency veterinary clinic.

I remember that drive well because of Benny’s strikingly normal behavior. Though exhausted and panting, he continued to go through the motions — albeit more slowly — of what he always did during car rides. He ignored my pleas to calm down and sit, he walked back and forth across my lap to look out the windows, and he nervously peed and pooped all over me. As I witnessed his slow-motion routines, I thought: “He doesn’t realize he’s dying.”

The emergency vet sedated Benny at 5 a.m. but by 1 p.m. I ended up taking him to a surgical hospital for animals. The specialist there said a tracheal stent might give Benny several more years of health, though it would be risky. Fearing the loss of our dog at the young age of 5, we ordered the surgery.

____

While humans make much of the youth-to-old-age cycle of life, a family pet teaches us how to revel in the present, rather than dwell on regret or the sting of lost potential.
___

During my wait at the surgery center, I noticed various nooks of the large waiting room designed for anxious families. Kleenex boxes peppered the scene, which told me things might get much grimmer very soon. On a lighter note, when I commiserated with a woman about the high cost of our dogs’ surgeries, she justified the expense with a gender-role reversal: “I just can’t stand to see my husband keep crying.”

Alas, the surgery helped Benny, but two months later the torturous gasping for air returned. We had exhausted the medical options; it was time to ease him into his final sleep.

We felt terrible. When a family pet dies young, it feels unjust. My youngest daughter spoke for all of us when she whispered through her tears: “I don’t want him to go.”

But we did feel good about ending his suffering. And I took some solace in that vision from the car ride with Benny. It showed me that while his early death was traumatic for our family, Benny himself never seemed aware of his impending doom. While humans make much of the youth-to-old-age cycle of life, the family pet just seems to live their right in front of us. They teach us how to revel in the present, rather than dwell on regret or the sting of lost potential.

As a former English professor, I also find solace in literary quotations during hard times such as when a family pet dies. For example, any early death calls to my mind the famous epitaph of British poet John Keats, who died of tuberculosis at 25. Aware that he was dying young, Keats requested his tombstone read “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

Another of my favorite quotations is from Virgil’s Georgics: “Optima dies … prima fugit,” a Latin phrase meaning “the best days … are the first to flee.” This phrase captures the honeymoon quality of all those sublime “firsts” in our families’ lives that pass by too fast — the first steps and words we experience with our babies, but also the memories of when our pets were puppies, kittens, etc. Ironically, because adult Benny weighed only seven pounds, I called him our “permanent puppy.” In that sense, he extended the life of those “best days” for our family.

Finally, I also take solace in a familiar quote I heard most recently at an eighth-grade graduation. While students were lamenting the end of their middle school years, a classmate reminded them of Dr. Seuss’s helpful formulation: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

Amen. Now please go give your pet an extra squeeze in honor of Benny.

I took a picture while running recently and I can’t stop staring at it. I get lost in it. My daughter’s ponytail caught mid-swing as she comfortably strides at her perfect pace. Our puppy chasing her, eager to catch up, mid-air, sprinting. Their shadows are crisply cast. The photo tells a story, not only of what’s happening but of things to come.

I’m not a photographer, by any stretch. I just snapped a bunch of shots with my phone, hoping to get something good. I tried to get my own shadow in the picture, because how cool would that have been? Couldn’t do it. Even if my shadow didn’t quite make the cut I know I’m there, just behind them, smiling like only someone who is completely aware of the moment can. Looking at the picture now, I know who they’re running with and it makes me smile all over again. It’s also making the outermost corner of my left eye slightly moister than usual. It doesn’t bring a tear to my eye or a lump in my throat; I’m not that big a sap. It just makes me sort of exhale a little louder, almost a sigh, but not quite.

Left on her own, our dog, Mallomar, could outpace my daughter and me with no problem, at least in relatively short distances. I could totally kick her puppy behind in a 10k! (Unless there was a squirrel pacing her.) It’s fun to hold Mallo back when we run with my daughter, Penny. All she wants to do is run alongside her girl, our girl. She practically pulls my arm off, her front and hind legs working in unison and straining against her leash and my shoulder socket. Finally I let her have at it. I have to go full 100-yard dash mode to keep up with her, bounding, practically bouncing, in an effort to catch up to Penny. (I say “effort,” but nothing could be easier for Mallomar.) She practically gets a foot in the face from Penny’s carefree kicking, but she doesn’t seem to mind. As soon as she catches up, she slows down. Everything slows down. I’m not normally one of those “Life is Good” bumper sticker people. But … Life. Is. Good.

All of that is captured in the photo. All of that and so much more.

I look at the picture and I already feel nostalgic, even though it’s from like a week ago. Who am I kidding? I felt the pangs of a moment gone forever the moment I took the photo. It was already in the past. But it also gave me a glimpse into the future.

I saw it all very clearly, as I blinked my eyes my baby girl was 17 years old. Ten years away. More time than she’s spent on the Earth thus far, but it happened, will happen, in an instant. I saw her heading off to college, but humoring me with one more run together before shipping out. I even joked a little bit about it that day.

When you do you think you’ll be faster than me? I asked, purposely goading her.

I’m already faster than you! She paused for dramatic effect . Because I cheat! 

That’s why you’re Cheater Girl.

I’m Cheetah Girl, daddy. Chee-TAH.

That’s what I said, Cheater Girl. Chea-TER, right?

It’s only funny when she says it, so she tried give me a little jab. Too bad I’m too fast for her! For now. In 10 years, who knows?

I think running together is going to be our thing. I hope so. Like most runners, I have a love-hate relationship with the sport. It’s annoying, frustrating and brings me so much pain. Kind of like Penny. But it has also afforded me some of my proudest, most cherished moments. And there is almost nothing in the world that makes me smile more. Exactly like Penny. (And her little brother, Simon, but he’s not running yet. Yet.)

A version of this first ran on Amateur Idiot/Professional Dad.

Do you have a poster of your family dog?

I was asked this unlikely question a while ago by an even more unlikely source: my children’s piano teacher. Let me explain.

My two daughters have been taking piano lessons from Susan, a very kind and talented musician, for several years. During this period, Susan has become smitten with our family dog, a Yorkshire Terrier named Benny, in part because he scampers through our kitchen with glee every time she arrives. I realized Susan was love-bitten the day she earnestly implored my wife and me to consider moving to California so handsome Benny could be discovered by Hollywood and placed into commercials immediately. (My similarly smitten wife says Benny looks like Brad Pitt, but that is another story.)

One day, Susan revealed that her love of Benny had inspired her to compose an original piece of music in his honor. In fact, she insisted that my youngest daughter add the song to her repertoire for an upcoming piano recital.

To a canine tolerator like me, the passion my daughter’s piano teacher expressed toward our family dog was sweet but also bizarre, since dogs — or any pets, for that matter — have never made music in my mind.

The song is titled “Benjamin O,” and in the recital program Susan listed it as a “World Premiere” performance. She also explained it was written for my daughter “to showcase her prodigious gifts of coordination and her love of fast tempos.” (To me, this was Susan’s nice way of describing my daughter’s impatience with her piano practice.) Her description continued that the song “is a musical portrait of the family’s Yorkshire Terrier, Benjamin Robert O’Keefe, attempting to describe musically his many charming mannerisms.”

Now, perhaps to a dog lover, this story makes perfect sense so far. But a dog tolerator like me considered Susan’s passion sweet but also bizarre, since dogs — or any pets, for that matter — have never made music in my mind.

The most extreme moment of the saga, however, came during the preparation for the recital. After explaining that she would introduce the song’s backstory to the audience, Susan said to me matter-of-factly: “We will need a poster of Benny.”

A what? Who has a poster of their family dog? And who would have the audacity to display such an image on a large easel to a crowd of more than 50 people at a children’s piano recital?

Me, it turns out.

Susan’s energy for this endeavor overwhelmed my intellect. Rather than resist her plan as the crazed idea of an overzealous animal-lover, I became pet-like and simply obeyed. Well, almost. Getting a poster of Benny on short notice was not feasible. I had to settle for an 18-by-24-inch enlarged photograph in a beautiful new frame. Hello, larger-than-life-size Yorkie photo; goodbye, many hard-earned dollars! And some of my dignity at the photo store.

The picture of Benny that my wife and I chose for his big close-up features a pensive, highly civilized pose. Benny lies on our hardwood kitchen floor in a pool of sunlight, the heavenly rays filtering his long hair as he stares wistfully into the distance like a seven-pound sphinx. You could say he’s nearly regal in the shot.

Fortunately, my daughter’s world premiere performance of “Benjamin O” went over well with the crowd. They also seemed to enjoy gazing at Benny’s visage while listening to the composition of light notes that alternately scamper and halt in, I must admit, small-canine fashion.

But then came the post-recital dilemma. What to do with the oversize photo of Benjamin O?

After searching the house, my wife and I found the perfect place: directly above his indoor potty pads. That’s right. In absurd juxtaposition, the corner of our kitchen features Benny at eye-height, a super-sized vision of royal magnificence, holding court above the place where he pees and poops unaccompanied by a soundtrack.

We had two dogs before my daughter was born: a 9-year-old Rottweiler and a 2-year-old Boxer. Bailey and Sydney were spoiled rotten. We took them on walks, played with them relentlessly, and they both slept soundly in our bedroom.

When expecting our first child, we received numerous suggestions – baby gadgets to buy, ways to raise our kids, stores to shop at, etc. One suggestion was on how to prepare dogs for baby entering their lives.

Wait. Prepare the dogs? Are you kidding me?

People warned us the dogs would not be ready for our new normal (we weren’t ready either, but that’s another story) and we should do things to get them ready. We should cry and make random noises in the middle of the night. We should ring the doorbell. We should get kids’ toys that make noise and turn them on around the dogs.

We did some of these things, but not consistently. Needless to say we, including the dogs, weren’t ready when my daughter came home.

The first night we were home, I sat with Bailey as she howled at the steps we wouldn’t let her go up. We thought she was being aggressive, but we weren’t sure. She barked. ALL NIGHT. She seemed put off by the baby. We finally asked a trusted dog trainer to come and inspect the situation – there was no way I could handle another night like that. Turns out Bailey was simply being protective of the baby. When we gave her the opportunity, she simply laid down next to the car seat and stood watch of our brand new baby girl.

I wish I learned to prepare dogs for baby

There were a few other hiccups along the way, but — thankfully — none of them were major issues. More importantly, I wish that I had a book like Good Dog, Happy Baby: Preparing Your Dog for the Arrival of Your Child by Michael Wombacher on how to prepare dogs for a baby coming home.

I recently interviewed Wombacher and, while he made many points, the first one was among the most important.

“Do not overestimate the power of jealousy,” he said. Keep in mind all the changes that will happen in your life and realize those changes will your dog as well as well as you. If your dogs associate those changes with your child that’s when the jealousy can come into play.

In some cases, families feel forced to give up their dog because of a new baby. Wombacher’s training methods and Good Dog, Happy Baby make this difficult choice between dog and child unnecessary. Wombacher also references many benefits (greater self-esteem and empathy to name two) that children gain when they have a dog as a companion.

Good Dog, Happy Baby breaks down into essentially three sections: a questionnaire that helps lay down the groundwork for the program, behavioral issues to address (things like barking, door crashing, jumping, etc.), and exercises to help ease into the transition of bringing the new baby home. The program consists of 12 steps meant to facilitate the learning process and initiate this new phase of the family’s life.

Wombacher’s words and approach have an inherent flexibility. He’s not an “all or nothing” trainer, an attitude he cautioned against. “People who say ‘only’ and ‘never’ are more interested in their own training  philosophy than they are in helping you,” he said.

I encourage any expecting couple with a family dog interested in getting help introducing a baby, or young child, into your pack,  to not only check out Good Dog, Happy Baby but also Wombacher’s website.

If you want to see an improvement in your kids’ level of responsibility and behavior, you may want to get a dog.

That’s completely opposite the usual logic, right?

Most of the time, we question whether children have the level of maturity and intelligence to care, feed, train, etc. I get it. I was right there. We had some serious doubts about how my 4-year-old and nearly 6-year-old would handle us getting a 50-pound greyhound through a rescue group.

When my kids were babies, we had a greyhound — a white with red brindle older girl — who tolerated them as long as we kept them far away from her. It wasn’t mutual love by any means. But it was our family for a while until the dog passed away. In the meantime, we’ve enjoyed several dog-free years which I now think of as both free and empty. The ability to leave the house for long periods of time without a care isn’t necessarily a greater feeling than that of a wagging tail greeting you when you arrive home.

When you get a dog, it brings something to your lives. It makes something click. And I think my kids have figured that out without any kind of spoken conversation about it. You may get an “I love you” or catch them gently hugging their new friend. But, mostly, it’s a change in their habits.

Don’t get me wrong. My kids still fight and yell and have careless moments of forgetting their manners. But they’re learning quickly. Our new greyhound, Maggie, is teaching them things that we’ve tried but failed to get across. When we used to ask them to pick up toys it would fall on a deaf ear. When Maggie chews up a Lincoln Log because they didn’t pick it up as soon as they were done playing, it drives home an immediate point. You can’t take it out on the dog … the dog was just doing what it does. That becomes your problem — your failure — that you’ll remember to correct next time.

We were careful to select our new dog based on her reaction to the kids. Maggie doesn’t mind loud noises, extra smothering, hands all over her, or a gang of small voices all trying to talk to her at once. That’s important because no family should just run out and bring home any animal. Maggie is gregarious to the point of us being able to take her to a crowded concert in the park during the first week we’ve had her. She relaxed on a picnic blanket while families around us ate dinner and thumping music filled the air. This dog has been through a lot so she takes most things in stride. She’s been to Texas, Alabama, Florida, a kennel in Chicago, a foster home, and now us. I’m not entirely convinced she thinks she staying. But I also think she realizes she’s got it pretty good if she’s “stuck” here. So far, we’ve gotten quite a few contented sighs as she sleeps on the couch — things a truly nervous dog wouldn’t be doing.

These kids though! They feed her, they play with her, they go for long walks (the rule is they have to hold the leash, though), they snuggle her, they try to teach her a few tricks, they use quiet voices and keep food off the floor. They pick up their things and they’re careful to watch the dog to make sure she is safe and doesn’t get into trouble. It’s really quite amazing. They’re quite proud of her and are eager to tell anyone who’ll listen about it. Their favorite fact seems to be that Maggie will steal their shoes.

When Maggie’s foster family e-mailed to check on her recently, I replied that was I surprised at how mellow Maggie is. We’d been expecting a hyper, energetic 2-year-old but that’s only part of the truth. She definitely has a playful personality when she wants. Most of the time she’s easygoing and, frankly, a little aloof. My wife, at one point, even wondered aloud if she’s depressed.

I’d say that’s not the case given how clearly she enjoys a great many things around her. It’s more of a dog Zen. She’s the ultimate in family stability … things come and go and she remains steadfastly aware and taking it in but doesn’t react. She sleeps. She eats. She plays. She gives great kisses and begs for rubs. But mostly she just chills.

And the best part is it’s rubbing off on the kids.

A version of this first appeared on Newfangled Dad.

“Get a dog” photo credit: Let’s take a nap via photopin (license)

Before my wife and I had children, we bought a dog. No discussion. No real thought. We just did it. All it took was a mention or two from some friends who were visiting from out of state, and about 30 minutes of looking at dogs online before we decided to take the plunge.

We didn’t get just any dog though, we got a rescue dog. We also didn’t want him to be the same type of dog you saw at the park, or behind fences in our neighborhood. We wanted him to be smart. You know, a true reflection of his owners. He attended and graduated from two Petsmart obedience classes (beginner and intermediate) and also a trick class. His name is Frisco, and he’s a Border Collie/Labrador retriever mix. He’s a very smart dog. Too smart for his own good sometimes.

He’s also going to be a great companion for the twins. They don’t spend a great deal of time with him right now because he’s quite a bit bigger than they are, and still a little freaked out by their innocence. He will join in their misery when they are upset though. One will cry about something (usually because they hear the word “NO”) and then Frisco will join in.

My wife and I realized recently that a lot of what we say to the twins, we also say to the dog. So much in fact that if I’m in the other room, and I hear her say “Sit down,” I often wonder which of the three she is talking to. Because of this, I have decided to write down all of the things we say to our furry little friend that we also say to our not-so-furry offspring.

1. Stay.

This one works much better on the dog.

2. Sit.

This is an easy one.

Sit on the couch.
Sit on the floor.
Sit in your highchair.
Just sit down so I can finish tying your shoes already!

3. Lie down.

It’s bedtime, and although we’re not getting the requests for a glass of water or “one more story,” it doesn’t mean that they stay lying down and go right to bed. Carter is pretty good about it. It takes him about two “shhhhs” over the baby monitor, and he’s down for the count. Gavin, on the other hand, spends the next 60 to 90 minutes moving about until he’s tired enough to crash. This includes rolling around, kicking the sides of the crib to try and wake up his brother, and of course, sitting up and trying to figure out why he’s in bed instead of downstairs watching reality television. (Relax, we don’t let them watch reality television. Really).

4. Leave it.

Out for a walk and they want to pick up an odd piece of garbage on the sidewalk that possibly looks a little like dog poop? LEAVE IT! You’ve just changed them and although it’s is wrapped up in a little ball, ready to dispose of, they go to reach for the soiled diaper that smells a lot like dog poop? LEAVE IT! They are playing in the backyard and head to the back door with something they found in the grass. EWWWW, DOG POOP! LEAVE IT!

5. Good Boy!

This one is tough because teaching and training are a lot alike. Both are successful with a lot of positive affirmations. Bring me the ball – good job. Point to the hat in the book – great work. Can you help dad pick up the toys? Good Boy! It’s all very similar to giving the dog a treat, and scratching its neck when it does something good. Like not eat your shoes.

Both the dog and the kids require a ton of attention and will act out if they don’t get any. Both will get into things that they don’t belong in if not supervised, they both have the ability to eat us out of house and home, and neither the dog nor the twins pick up after themselves.

Are there differences between dogs and children? Of course, there are.

Three!

1. Our kids eat four times per day, our dog only eats twice (but not by choice).
2. Our dog leaves less of a mess when he eats.
3. If the boys misbehave, we don’t send them to their crate.

I can think of one more way that our dog and our children are alike,

The immeasurable amount of love they show us every single day.

A version of this first appeared on Double Trouble Daddy.