After decades of being the default manager of birds, fish, cats having cats (oops) and dogs, I was done with animals in the house.
The kids were gone, so were the animals.
But then my son moved home.
And soon after, came the isolation of COVID to help him make his case.
"Come on, Mom," said Chris. "New life in the house could be good for us.
"Besides, you won't have to do anything. It'll be my dog.
"I'll do everything."
Uh-huh.
I'd heard those words before, when Chris was 15, and his siblings 8 and 12, when they swore on their Beanie Babies they would take sole responsibility for a puppy.
This time, he's 31.
This time, he would be the one laying out the Venmo for the pedigree, which would put him squarely in the position of CEO with vested interest.
Still, I'd gotten used to a house without fur balls and the faint scent of flea collars. Having spent the last three decades raising three humans and their attendant menagerie, I liked the feeling of not being responsible for anybody's well-being but mine.
To be sure, this was a position colored by our most recent family pet relationship. A much-loved and adorable cocker, Toby, circa 2004-2016, decided I was the go-to in the family for all his needs even though I couldn't touch him. Allergic to his dander, I was relegated to all work and no cuddles, the food dispensary when everybody else forgot mom, the nag about baths and fleas mom, the let the dog in, let the dog out all day long because I'm the one with the home office mom, and when in his last months, he had a battle with fleas, the allergic to fleas on Toby mom.
A good and beloved dog, regardless, Toby died four years ago, with me saying never again. Their dad and I separated not long after that; he took the cat. The kids finished growing up, and left, too. And then, in February, Chris moved back home from Washington, D.C., where he'd lived the last decade, to help with some family matters.
I knew that Chris would be giving up a lot, trading his big-city digs for life back in the little Midwest town where he grew up, that when COVID came, he was stuck, which is why when he first started working the puppy angle in March, I did not say "Absolutely not!"
I simply groaned, which surprised us both, as we both knew from experience the door was not closed.
By April when there was no sign of letting up, either COVID or the dog bargaining, I further surprised myself by engaging in casual conversations about breeds.
By May, when we had been on lockdown together for two months, it occurred to me that a happy puppy in the house might be just what Fauci ordered.
In June, Chris put down a deposit on a springer spaniel.
This week, we picked up Rosie, a living, breathing love ball with ears that flop when she runs, who licks our faces with no knowledge of COVID, who is so fresh to this weary world she doesn't know a shoe from a bone.
She has to be taught, which becomes one of the most delightful and unexpected surprises _ watching my loving son papa a puppy, also hearing yips in the middle of the night and knowing I don't have to do a thing
Her first 24 hours with us, she threw up, ate a Mac cord and peed on the floor three times.
And I got to stay in bed, while my son seemed gratified to take up the mantle once relegated to me.
Apparently, this is the story of pets. They show us things we weren't expecting.
They aren't just pee machines dropping fur all over the house.
They are ambassadors of love, connectors of humans and the catalyst for an unyielding mom to rethink her decrees.
Never say never.
Sometimes a house just needs a puppy.
