I Wish the Real World Would Just Stop Bothering Matt

Sunday, while he sipped coffee and perused the classifieds in the local paper (I use that term generously), a litter of puppies caught Matt's eye. I only half listened to his running puppy commentary over the din of our own litter of toddlers (except that I can barely call them all toddlers because one of them is (sob) four and the other one is speeding towards that milestone so fast and I'm having the hardest time writing about the fact that they are practically teenagers, so until I can stop grieving and convey my feelings about their imminent adulthood, I'm going to live in happy denial and call them all toddlers a little longer).

Our three toddlers destroyed our living room while Matt pretended we'd found a space-time continuum warp and traveled back five years to that blissful time when we could actually read the paper (a real paper, not this podunk drivel) and drink coffee for hours on a Sunday morning without needing a new living room.

Matt jabbed a finger at the paper. "I bet this is a second litter, remember I saw the same description of puppies about a year ago. I love the sound of these breeds."

Blah, blah, blah, puppies, blah, mixed, blah, cute, blah. I didn't really listen. I don't want a puppy.

"Let's go and see them."

Eeeeerrrrrrrkkkkk. That was the sound of the music stopping. Or my head exploding. Or something.

Me: No.
Matt: Look at how cute they are.
Me: No.
Matt: I'd really like to see them.
Me: No.
Matt: The mudroom is almost done and I'll have more time in the winter.
Me: No.
Matt: It's almost an hour away. It will take an hour to get up there, we let the kids play with the puppies for an hour, an hour back, if we stop for dinner it will fill the whole afternoon.
Me: ...

Damn, he knows me well. I'm a complete sucker for anything that involves toddler containment and fills an entire afternoon.

Me: Um. I don't. Arg. No! No puppies. No.
Matt: Just to look.
Me: ... Arg. If we can go on Tuesday, okay. But, I get to go straight to preschool orientation when we get home.
Matt: Okay.

That was suspiciously easy.

Me: I won't be home until 9:00. That means you do bedtime on your own.
Matt: I'll do it.

Hmmmmm. I sensed I was missing something, but I agreed to go and see the puppies. Yesterday, we drove an hour north with our kids yipping and yelping excitedly about puppies in the back of the van. I repeatedly reminded Matt and them that we were only looking at the puppies, we were not, under any circumstances, bringing a puppy home.

A few misturns and dirt roads later, we pulled up in front of a country homestead that had seen better days. A large mesh pen sat near the front door. Inside the pen, an older woman with a long gray ponytail brushed the biggest black dog I've ever seen, with the possible exception of the goat-killing dog of our last puppy adventure. Around the black dog and the woman tumbled a litter of eight or nine bear cubs.

Matt: There they are guys, look over there, those are the puppies.

He and the toddlers barely contained their glee.

Me: Those are not puppies. Those are cubs.
Matt: They're big, aren't they?
Me: They are...prehistoric-sized.
Matt: Nah, they're just puppies, that's the mom right there I bet. She's a Great Pyrenees cross Brazilian Mastiff.

He waved merrily at the grey-haired woman, who waved back. It was like everyone else was insane and I was sane and no one would listen to me or understand how crazy they were. So, pretty much like every day. I should have paid more attention when he nattered on and on about the breed mix.

Matt: The owner is Ophelia, I'm not sure about her husband's name.
Me: Matt, those puppies are enormous. This is not a good idea.

He unbuckled the kids and they scattered from the van at breakneck speed with demented enthusiasm.

Me: No! Not my baby. You leave my teeny tiny small-enough-to-be-eaten-by-those-puppies baby in the car.

By now, it was hard to tell my kids from the puppy-bear cubs except that the puppies were bigger and had more hair. They rollicked en masse in the grass for a while. I wish I had pictures because it was really cute and because I know you are not accurately picturing the size of these puppies in your own minds.

I started to relax and ask a few questions. The cub-puppies were adorable, I had to admit. Ess and Gee and Cue were in heaven.

"Here's Daddy," Ophelia's husband remarked casually, "this is Spike. He can be a little rough with kids, he likes them a bit too much."

Around the corner of the faded house came a cave lion being led by a teenage girl. She could barely hold Spike as he made repeated bounds toward my mouse-sized children slobbering big exuberant goobers of slobber and batting out playfully with his dinner plate sized paw. I am not afraid of dogs, in general. Cave lions masquerading as dogs frighten me a bit.

Before I could even turn to Matt and tell him that I'd have the divorce papers drawn up tomorrow, Spike caught Cue with an overly playful left jab and sent him flying, sobbing hysterically, backwards. I mother-henned my kids into a pile on the stairs behind me while Matt greeted Spike like they were star-crossed lovers separated for years by an evil witch's curse. I would say I was the witch in this scenario, but I was too busy playing gladiator and keeping my body between the lion and my children.

Matt turned to me, mid gigantic head rub, covered in lion saliva.

Matt: Isn't he gorgeous?
Me: What is that exactly?
Matt: The puppies' dad.
Me: Right. But, is it a griffin? A sphinx? What kind of mythical beast are we fighting here?

I was just stalling for time while I searched in vain for a tear in the fabric of this alternative fantasy universe so that I could pull my children and I back into the real world.

Matt: He's an English Bull Mastiff.
Me: ?
Matt: He's fabulous. Look at him. Are you looking at him?
Me: Is there any possible way to miss him?

I lost control of my kids and they fanned back out, chasing bear cubs, ah, bull mastiff cubs in every possible direction.

Matt: So, what do you think. I like the bigger pup that looks like Spike.

Two of the cubs had Spike's coloring, a warm dun shade with black points. You know, LIKE A LION.

Me: Oh sure, the biggest one. You like the biggest mastiff cub out of a little of eight mastiff cubs. Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how aggressive and large, and aggressive and large and LARGE that dog is going to be.
Ophelia: He's definitely a dominant one, he gets the food first that one.
Me: Yeah, no kidding.
Matt: He'll be alright, they have great temperaments.

I have to admit that not one of those eight cubs had so much as nipped one of the kids. Momma bear sat sweetly unless Spike got too close and then she snarled like her life was on the line. Can we blame her?

Spike's biggest threat seemed to be pure size. He was incredibly gentle. As if to prove a point, Gee tripped over his log like leg and fell over his back. Spike just kind of glanced over his shoulder.

Matt: Look at how sweet he is, he didn't even flinch.
Me: Because he thought our thirty-eight pound son was a fly. Let's be realistic here. These dogs are huge, they need to be brushed, walked, trained, like really trained, not like half-ass kind of trained. We have an eight week old baby. Three other very young children. I'm alone four long days a week.

I meant it; I knew I was right. I knew my concerns were valid, but it was still hard to watch my husband return from whatever planet to which he'd flown, to watch his shoulders sag a little with the weight of his responsibilities, his real life. It was sad to see him re-discover the size of his small children, acknowledge the impossibility of certain dreams. Right now. Someday, if the man wanted a lion, he could have a lion, but not today. I knew what he was feeling, the same feeling I get when I look at plane tickets to Uganda.

Not regret, exactly, but a certain weightiness. The weight of our now.

Me: Ophelia, how much does Spike weigh?
Ophelia: Oh, he's around two hundred and twenty pounds. The pups won't get that big though, maybe one eighty, one ninety?
Me: Mmmmmm. That's big. Do you know if the last litter of puppies drooled like that, like Spike I mean?
Ophelia: Depends on their jowls, but no, not quite that bad.
Matt: It's not that bad is it Spike?

He wiped a foot long trail of saliva hanging from Spike's cheek. Ophelia cackled a crackly giggle.

Ophelia: A friend of ours got rid of their Bull Mastiff because she got tired of cleaning drool off of the ceiling.
Me: It was really nice of you to let us see the puppies. Matt, I'm going to start putting the kids in the van.

Washing filthy hands with baby wipes and Purell, I watched Matt give Spike a last ear rub and pick up the biggest, healthiest cub for a cuddle. I felt for him. Sometimes we want what we have, four kids, a gorgeous old house on a busy corner in an urban neighborhood and something totally juxtaposed, like maybe a faded country homestead with an ancient pick up truck in the weedy side yard and a litter of puppy-cubs in the back.

He climbed into the driver's seat and backed the van out of the dusty driveway.

"I'm sorry," I told him.
"It could work," he started.
"Matt, I am not buying a dog that will be twice my weight and shakes drool onto the ceiling. Think Golden Retriever. Next spring. Okay?"

We drove in silence for a few miles. Well, we were silent, we drove individually immersed in the non-stop ocean of noise and giggles and questions and songs and shrieks and complaints that is our life.

Matt glanced at me. "There's a '73 Ford extended cab on Craig's List. I really need a pick-up truck for my projects." I raised my eyebrows. "I'll have a lot more time for projects, if I'm not going to have a dog this winter."
"And the truck is for what?"
"Hauling stuff."

I turned deliberately around to survey our completely filled seven passenger minivan. "You need a truck that seats two people?"
He nodded. "For hauling."

Of course he does. I suppose there's a bright side. Trucks do not drool on ceilings.