We were waiting in the car on a tired Saturday afternoon when Clara started asking questions about our dog, Titus.
“Dad, why does Titus run away every time Ginger tries to play with him?” she asked, referring to the hyper young dog that lives at Grandma’s house. The gangly yellow creature that towers over our pug by about two feet and spends most of her time airborne.
I opened my eyes and turned to look into the back seat where all three of my children sat wide eyed and eager for an answer to this perplexing riddle.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” continued Clara, “When ever we take him to Grandma’s house Ginger comes running up excited to see him and wanting to play, and Titus turns right around and runs the opposite direction.”
I nodded slowly, “Well, you have to understand. Titus is an old dog. And an old dog just wants to find a nice warm place to sit and sleep for a while without younger dogs coming along and dancing on his head all the time.”
“Ooooh!” She said far too excited, “That’s just like you then! You are an old dog like Titus!”
I slowly opened my mouth to object, but I was too tired to turn back around again, and something told me that this was an argument I wouldn’t be able to win.