Whoops . . . Daddy Moment

I have a theory about dads. We’re all hardwired for certain things. Piss us off while driving and, without even knowing it, we’ll say, “Don’t make me turn this car around.” Keep complaining about things for hours on end and, quite by accident, you’ll say, “I’ll give you something to cry about” (even though you don’t really mean it). When you have girls you find yourself trying to convince them to be asexual, even from the moment of birth. Without even knowing how you gained the knowledge, you will start complaining about traffic patterns on certain roads at certain times. And, eventually, you’ll find yourself sitting on the couch reading the newspaper while the kids are playing at your feet. You’ll rustle the newspaper and say something like, “Damned government wouldn’t know reform from its own rectal warts.” When you start coming home, sit on the couch in your v-neck undershirt and get a “Drinkie poo” to unwind, you’ve officially become your father.

No matter how much we try to be different, we’re all the same. True, some of us are more involved than others, but the instincts are all there. We don’t have control over them. We can resist for a while, but eventually nature will win out.

That’s what happened to me this weekend. I think, because Matilda had a slumber party, my brain’s defenses were low.

I was reading the paper and drinking coffee (I have a habit of reading the whole paper on a daily basis. Skim some things, read all of others . . . but I look at each story. I don’t know why.). I saw an ad. I thought, “that would be fun” and the rest is history.

What was the ad for? An Adopt-a-Stray charity event. What is now history? That we are dog owners.

Meet Finnegan. He’s our one year old Border Collie. We didn’t name him, that’s the name the shelter gave him. But, c’mon. I have an English degree. I’m Irish. Am I going to turn down a James Joyce-themed dog? Plus, have you ever heard the traditional Irish song “Finnegan’s Wake”? The Dubliners do a killer version.

I won’t go into the gory details. I won’t say that I intended to get a dog. But I won’t deny that I didn’t intend on not getting a dog (take that politicians!).

The girls love him. He plays fetch with a ball and catches Frisbees. He’s loyal and already loves us. The only thing he’s done wrong so far is pee in the basement and be a little over-zealous with his excitement. He’s still a puppy in age, with a full-grown dog’s body. But he’s gentle and loving. And very protective of the girls already. Gertrude fell in the hallway and started to cry. He came shooting from across the house and sat there next to her, worried. He’s a herding dog and we’re now his herd.

He’s a good boy. And he’s the first dog I’ve had in over a decade now, since T.J., the world’s most famous three-legged-dog, died.

And I have a feeling he’s going to be a good friend. To be fair, I won’t guilt you with the story about how he was saved from the county’s “death row” by the charity shelter. He was slated to be put down because he wasn’t adopted. Poor guy. He’s such a loving dog.

But I admit. It was the dad in me. When I said, “let’s get a dog” the entire house erupted in cheers and whoops like we had just won the World Series or Madonna released a statement saying she had lost her voice. Joy. Sheer joy.

Dads are mysterious and confusing. Sometimes they are as strict as a drill sergeant. Other times they’re just big old softies. Tell him on Monday night you want to learn to play piano and he’ll harrumph and grumble about the cost of lessons and the cost of the piano, where you’d put it, etc. But come home from school the next day and there will be a piano in the living room.

We can’t help it.