Simon The Wheaten is thirty-five pounds of fluffy puissance that barrels through our home like a tornado. Olivia--armed with an ankle-breaking walker--and he race through the house, all monstrous eighteen-hundred square feet of it, so I end up most of the day hollering, "OUT!" as he races into forbidden zones like my bedroom.
I often wonder what it is like for Olivia to grow up with such a large fireball of a pet. I longed for a dog my whole childhood, and I am happy that she is fortunate enough to be able to take it for granted that he's around. And as much as he can be a nuisance (i.e.: almost every one of Olivia's toys has the head chewed off), I like to think that he's an addition to the family that teaches the children wonderful life lessons.
He does. Olivia and I were in her room playing, and she picked up one of her ususal tidbits from the floor (dirt, thread, paperclip) and slyly attempted to put it into her mouth. I, due to months of training, was too quick for her and swept it away with a firm No.
She looked right at me and pointed to the door: "OUT."
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