On this day it was the Christmas tree that Barnaby took his stupidity out on. The mess was ridiculous, but more than that, this was my tree. My tree is my trophy of womanhood! My tree is my tree! The altar to my creativity and taste in yuletide design! And that dog. That dog had crossed. the. line. I gave that dog the full force of my Fearsome Mom act, and he spent the next five hours cowering on his pillow in the bedroom.
That's when I remembered why I like that other dog so much better.
I am firmly Team Peter, you guys. You should really be Team Peter, too. I'm all about agency in this blog, and shoot, Barnaby is pretty cute, but I mean, really. Team Peter is where it's at. Allow me to convince you, if you please?
I met Peter Pan for the first time at Concourse C of the Indianapolis Airport on a snowy November evening. (How's that for an opening sentence!) I had flown to Indiana so I could pick up my firstborn, my love bug, the creature I had hand-selected to be my substitute for a baby, to quell the hormones that had been screaming, "Mother something! Anything!" I signed the documents and she handed him to me, my little adopted child. He quivered and shook and buried his head right into my shoulder and sighed. And there, right there in the baggage claim, right there in Indiana, I became a Mother.
Peter Pan was raised in a tiny apartment in the sky. He peed on trees that grew in the cracks of city streets and he walked the Brooklyn Promenade along the East River where the world's tallest sky scrapers live. Peter Pan is my Woody Allen, my neurotic Jewish dog with a big nose.
There is something about Peter Pan that most people just don't "get" at first. At least, that's what I've been told. People are always telling me that, all the time. "Barnaby's so friendly!" they'll say while he dances around their feet. Then they look at Peter Pan and struggle to find something nice to say while he sits there analyzing their emotional makeup with his weird zoobie eyes. "Uh, he's handsome?" That's all fine with me, because I like my Peter Pan this way. He's like olives, don't you think? He's not for everybody, sure, I get that. He's only for smart people.
Peter Pan has a way of looking at you that can be rather off-putting I guess, if you're not prepared for it. It is like he is seeing directly into your soul. I am telling you, he sees everything. He sees your hopes and dreams and what you ate for breakfast, he sees your deepest secrets, he loves you for them. If you aren't ready for something like that, well, too bad for you. His love is deep and unending. I am not exaggerating. Okay, maybe a little.
And anyway, Peter Pan doesn't come inside after a potty break with heavily scented poop breath. That's worth noting.
My very favorite thing is when somebody finally "gets" Peter Pan. Like they've been looking at him all their lives but suddenly they see him. It is a very spiritual experience, is all I can tell you. Like the one time when my sister Alex finally let Peter sit by her and then she looked at him sort of funny and he entranced her just like that and then she went, "Oh! I get it!" It really was a very special moment.
Sometimes I forget that Peter Pan isn't really a dog. I mean, he looks like a dog, and sometimes he does do rather doggish things so I understand your confusion, but actually he is not a dog. Take today for instance.
Today I was dancing about the living room telling The Holbs the more interesting parts of the thoughts inside my head while he tried to study. This always happens to me the minute The Holbs has something else to think about. Suddenly I feel like I have to tell him everything. Through interpretive dance! Barnaby was on the couch watching me flit about with panicked eyes while Peter sat primly next to The Holbs, possibly reviewing his outlines for spelling errors. Every now and then Peter would look at me like I was interrupting some important train of thought. (Come to think of it, The Holbs had that look on his face too, hmm.) So I asked Pete, I said, "Hey Pete! Am I annoying you or something?" And then I kid you not, he looked straight back at me, square in my eyeballs, and he told me he needed a snuggle. Clear as day! He did, I swear it. So I stopped my annoying bouncing about and scooped him up right quick.
This is our little ritual. His breeder told me once I should hold him like a baby when he acts up. She had this theory about establishing dominance and such and I was all, whatever, holding him like a baby is sort of the reason I am buying him? Win-win? So all through his whackadoo puppy years I would scoop him up and calm him down and okay, rock him a little, let's be honest. Sometimes there was a lullaby involved, okay.
So I held him against my chest today and felt his little pea-sized noggin drop to my shoulder. His long arms and legs relaxed and then he exhaled deeply. It was oddly calming. I wondered if he felt it too? And then I remembered. This isn't just some dumb dog we're dealing with here. This is a highly emotional, intelligent creature, people. And I'm not just some human who can reach his ridiculously expensive dog food twice a day. I'm his momma.
So I held him and rocked him and rubbed his back a little, asked him how his day was, gave him kisses on his soft fluffy ears. I let out all the motherly instincts I had and let him soak them up for a bit. Afterward I felt less jumbled. That there is a true story, friends.
Team Peter.
I mean, am I right or am I right?
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