Zeke has limited patience for small children these days. Ten years ago he was all about the kids, joyously letting them poke and prod and punch him (which they called “petting.") Pushing fifteen, he’ll have none of it. But he’s far too good to think of disciplining the errant children he meets, and so the only real differences between Zeke beset by children at five and Zeke beset by children at fifteen are the look on his face as they mob him, and the elapsed time before he tries to get away.
Sophie will be two in January, and she loves dogs. We thus had one of those irresistable force and immovable object conundra enacted live for our amusement last night.
Liam is going through changes of his own. At three, he already has a profound sensitivity and inner life. He tired of even his favorite uncle’s company after half an hour or so of playing “airplane” on the rolling office chair. He fed the rabbit and the guinea pig, walked over to the beleaguered dog and kissed his forehead. This is a measure of Zeke’s demeanor, as Liam is quite afraid of dogs. For much of the rest of the evening, Liam was self-contained, playing with Becky’s toys and wandering around our house exploring.
Sophie’s hand was glued to Zeke’s back for most of the evening. This was a dilemma for Zeke. He was unsure how to slough off his hitchhiker. He walked to the bedroom, then from the bedroom to the office, then from the office to the kitchen and back into the living room. Nothing worked. Sophie followed as though she was grasping an assistance dog harness. Even the old “walk under the dining room table” gambit failed to dislodge her, despite a minor bump to her forehead. Mere pain would not dissuade Sophie from the important task of loving the dog.
I could have said something to her, asked her nicely to leave the doggie alone, and she would have, as she is in the main an obedient child. But I didn’t. I found Zeke’s obvious, eye-rolling annoyance more amusing than a compassionate dog person should. Sophie wasn’t pulling hair, or poking eyes: she merely kept the dog company he didn’t really want. Eventually, Zeke went out into the rainy backyard and found blessed solitude.
It was later. The rest of us were in the traditional Thanksgiving post-prandial torpor, but Sophie was peckish. Out came the raisins. She ate one box-full. The second box was for sharing. She made the rounds, trying to treat each adult in the house to at least a couple raisins, which she carefully put in our mouths. As favorite uncle, I was lucky enough to get the two that had fallen on the carpet with the dog hair. This was not a problem. It was, after all, my dog.
Zeke came back in, ate a few bites of turkey, and the forced march through the rooms began anew.
And then it was late, and Liam and Sophie drove their sleepy parents back home, and my mom and Jim left, and my brother-in-law and I did a bit of desultory cleaning as Becky lay unconscious in her big chair. While Sophie had been seated at the table, I’d brought Zeke’s food dishes to our bedroom laden with stuffing and organ meats so that he could eat in peace. I went to bring his dishes into the kitchen for wash.
Zeke had licked the plate clean. On that empty plate, carefully positioned in the exact center, was a raisin.
