Selina was pacing the kitchen floor when I walked in to get some tea.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh…just thinking,” she said.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about what kind of dog I want to get.”
We can’t get a dog. Not in this condo, not at the kids’ ages, not while Cole is commuting to work. We got guinea pigs almost a year ago to give Selina a cuddly mammal to molest, but she still spends an inordinate amount of time planning for her someday dog.
“What kind of dog do you think you might like to get?” I ask her.
I try to give her as much fantasy dog as possible, considering how much I feel I’m failing her in the real dog department.
“I think…a poodle. Because it’s curly–like me!”
She changes dog types frequently, but I gently urge standard poodles when given the chance because they are less allergy-inducing. So I was happy to hear this.
“That sounds like a great idea,” I tell her.
“But…I don’t think poodles usually come in blue…“