The greatest gift that a man could receive on Fathers’ Day is to find out he’s a grandfather. So what if it’s to a different species?
My daughter came over yesterday to spend Fathers’ Day with me, and she brought her two babies, Teddy and Lucy. Lucy’s her new dog, a pit bull she got from a rescue. I thought that all pit bulls were mean, nasty dogs that would eat Michael Vick for breakfast. Not Lucy. Yesterday, in my yard, her worst transgression was to slobber on the deck with that tongue of hers that would make Kiss bassist Gene Simmons envious.
I don’t know what breed Teddy is. I wasn’t even sure that he was a dog. The little hairy thing looks more like a tribble. He’d be all the talk at a Star Trek convention. But my daughter assures me that he is indeed a dog, and he proved it the way he took to that steak bone I gave him. I love to spoil my granddogs.
In fact, I’d like to be able to take them to a ball game, or maybe to the amusement park to ride the ferris wheel, but I’m afraid of what might happen if they get stopped at the top and Lucy commences to slobbering. The riders below would think it was Hurricane Rita all over again.