My husband and I were talking to — or more accurately, in front of — our daughter today when it occurred to me that I’m genuinely not sure whether all the small things we’ve ever been responsible for are naturally incapable of surviving on their own, or if we emit some strange aura that turns them into hopeless little creatures.
Since living together, my husband and I have had two puppies, two cats, and a child. Not a single one would have survived in the wild, despite animal instincts or, frankly, any sense of basic self-preservation.
Our first puppy was very intelligent, very cute (she knew it), and had the energy levels of a toddler on Red Bull. She was a collie–husky cross, which meant half of her wanted to run in a straight line until she reached the North Pole, and the other half wanted to herd anything with four legs. The result was a puppy who ran in wavy lines, refused to walk to heel on the lead, and glued herself to our heels the moment she was off it.
We eventually solved this by allowing her to carry one end of a six-foot stick while we held the other. Don’t ask. It worked. Mostly.
One day, I gave her a sliver of Sunday roast in the garden. It dropped on the gravel, and from that moment until the day she died she attempted to chew every pebble in search of more elusive beef-flavoured stones.
The kittens were even more ridiculous. Before they were old enough to be vaccinated, the shelter instructed us to keep them inside. At night, we kept them downstairs with free rein of the main room, and put a 10-lb lead ball on a chain (as you do) in front of the kitchen door so they couldn’t get in and cause chaos.
One morning, my husband came downstairs and both kittens were gone. The weight was still in front of the only door… yet no kittens. It turned out they had batted the weight aside just enough to open the kitchen door, gone inside, dragged the chain back under the door, and pulled it tight behind them. They had, quite literally, locked themselves in the kitchen.
When freed, they did everything in their power to pretend they had definitely not been in the kitchen and were absolutely not that stupid.
Later, one of them fell ill and dramatically curled up on a chair radiating, “Leave me to die.” After syringing milk into her tiny, melodramatic mouth, we discovered she was simply dehydrated — she had forgotten to drink from the bowl two feet away. She is now a 15-year-old cat, still ridiculous, but occasionally remembers to hydrate.
And the child?
Well. This entire blog is one long catalogue of “where do I start?!”
She tried to walk off a broken arm. She ate rocks (and crayons, and several other non-edible substances). She refused to eat actual food. She sees sleep as an optional extra she will not select because of FOMO. Yesterday she attempted to find the correct piece of Lego by waving a bright pink shark slipper over the pile and hoping it would land on it. (It did not.)
Which brings me to our most recent puppy — the one we bought as a family pet, with vague aspirations of training him as a service dog for the child.
Yesterday he spent the entire afternoon barking, whining, and scratching at his crate door. We let him out repeatedly. He ran outside, played, did his business, and then bolted straight back into his crate… only to repeat the cycle. Over and over. I was losing my mind. He had toys, chews, water — everything.
Then my husband realised his food bowl was still full.
He dragged the puppy back down the stairs, made him look at the bowl before he could sprint back up, and puppy immediately inhaled a bowl and a half of kibble. He had forgotten to eat. Despite running past the bowl all afternoon. Apparently bubbles and his best friend are more important than basic survival.
So here we are: pairing the puppy who forgets to eat with the child who forgets everything, and hoping they will somehow balance each other out.
A recipe for success, right?
How do we keep ending up with them?!
Raising the Modern Fae 