Shortly after I got married, my parents replaced me with a dog. I should have seen it coming. Parents can’t be expected to endlessly carpool the sort of girl who insists on growing up. And Claude, as a committed black Lab, shows no propensity for that.
Claude is what pediatric manuals refer to as an easy child. He never frets over homework, having opted out of the unfortunately named obedience school. Claude has not once requested recorder, creative-movement or copper-enamel jewelry making lessons. He has yet to suggest summer camp or swimming instruction. He has never auditioned for a musical. Claude is low maintenance.
Claude is content with an allowance of nothing. He doesn’t find his wardrobe inadequate. And he rarely monopolizes the phone.
Claude has never been arrested for riding his bike without a permit, nor has he agitated for a pet not specified by the city code and been called to municipal court to explain. Claude lacks the paw-eye coordination to park the car at college and neglect to drive it home.
Instead, he takes it easy. Claude sleeps. Claude eats. Claude goes outside, where he sniffs trees and pees on them. He finds this an adequate, even fulfilling, agenda. And he prefers to pursue these hobbies in the company of his parents. Claude never needs his space. He doesn’t keep a diary. He feels no urge to assert his individuality. Claude likes togetherness. Especially for naps.
His parents have responded in kind, granting Claude a leniency my own parents would have frowned upon. Claude is excused from laundry and yardwork-though he readily volunteers to clear the dishes of leftovers. Claude rides in the front seat, uninhibited by a lapbelt. Claude enjoys meals at the family table, or, more precisely, under the family table. My own children have been petitioning for this privilege for years.
My daughterly duties have been reduced to attending events from which Claude is, unreasonably, excluded. Which is to say, the opera. I am also invited to certain overly rigid restaurants where dogs are served only via carry out. He orders in advance.
This arrangement seems to be working well. Because I am often short on heart-shaped, hand-cut organic dog crunchies, Claude seems uncertain who I am and what it is I want. But he finds my children downright suspicious. They have, on occasion, attempted to distract his parents by flaunting skills he lacks, like the winning combination of opposable thumb and crayon. He can usually fend off this insult by inserting his long, black snout into any conversation and licking, with passion. Which could explain why my children are fairly adept at same.
