Thursday Essay: One Small Family, One Smaller Puppy, One Major Battle

“Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” —Mark Twain

The Civil War pitted brother against brother in a desperate and bloody battle for the nation's meaning and existence. Such was nearly the fate of my little family as we grappled with an issue no less important than slavery, trade, and the limits of federalism.

We had to get brothers to agree on a name for the new puppy.

You think I exaggerate. Alas.

Before we get to the fun stuff — and I promise you this is a good story (hopefully) well-told — indulge me in a little throat-clearing. Circumstance forced me to write too much these last two years about loss, grief, war, and other weighty matters. So when I sometimes take a break to share something silly and personal, it isn't just a welcome break. The best part is that you VIPs always share so much right back in the comments.

Maybe the best example was back in February, when I told the strange and remarkable tale of how Son the Elder came to be. What I gleaned from you, Gentle Readers, is that maybe it wasn't so strange or remarkable... except that every birth is indeed both. Everyone had such delightful stories to tell.

Anyway, two weeks ago we got a puppy.

As Longtime Sharp VodkaPundit Readers™ might remember, it's been a year of loss here at Villa Verde, beginning with the death of my mother-in-law, Paula, last summer. Getting her husband of 53 years moved and settled, and a lifetime of possessions sorted, and...

...well, I'm sure you know the drill well enough that I don't have to bore you with it.

Then, of our three dogs, we lost the older two barely more than six months apart. The youngest has had an awful lot of extra love to soak up since May, but he's proven up to the task.

I say all this not to dwell or make anyone sad but to set the stage for why Melissa and I put off adopting the puppy we knew our family needed. There was just so much grief, and nobody wanted to bring a puppy into a home that had anything less than 100% of what a puppy needs. 

But we were also in violation of the Villa Verde Overlap Rule, which states that we may never (with brief exceptions) have fewer than two dogs or more than three. We didn't really choose three as the upper limit — that's just how many can eat comfortably at the same time in the laundry room. Otherwise, the neighbors would call us "the crazy dog people" behind our backs and steer their children away on Halloween.

"WE HAVE THE FULL-SIZE CANDY BARS!" we'd shout into the darkness to no avail, trying to wrangle 18 dogs away from the front door.

Back in the real world, once or twice a week, all summer long, one of us would say something like, "I'm so ready for another dog, but I'm not ready."

That is, until Melissa started a second rosé on an empty stomach at a Sunday brunch. Melissa and I were at my best friend's surprise 50th birthday party, and sometime between saying all of our hellos and the buffet, Melissa went from "But I'm not ready" to "I'm ready for a puppy."

Apparently, the very nice bottle of wine had been contaminated with a massive viral load of Puppy Fever. 

And Another Thing: I swear to you that somewhere in Wuhan, there's a very confused-looking scientist with a missing bottle of wine and an entire litter of puppies he doesn't remember adopting.

If you know my wife — even just third hand through the occasional personal PJ Media item — then you know that when she makes an announcement like that, she isn't expressing a feeling; she's indicating imminent action.

She pulled out her phone and I whipped mine out almost as quickly.

As I learned 20 years ago when I tried to warn her against having a Christmas baby — we have a Christmas baby — when the woman is a-gonna, she's a-gonna.

Searching for local breeders and rescues while the hostess tried and failed twice to get us into the buffet line, we quickly settled on another Golden Retriever. And when I say, "we settled on," I mean Melissa kept showing me pictures of Golden puppies on her phone and making cooing noises like the world's happiest eight-year-old girl.

These things happen.

That's when we ran into a problem. There were no local breeders with puppies available soon enough to get us out of violation of the Overlap Rule. The ones who did have pups catered to hunters willing to pay exorbitant prices for perfect, large hunting dogs.

All we needed was a happy pup for our happy family.

That's when we learned about Amazon Puppy Prime.

OK, I'm kidding — but not by much. We found a breeder in Ohio with good reviews and a solid reputation, and an affordable puppy delivery service that would drive him to us in air-conditioned comfort within 36 hours of departure.

We picked out a male with a surprisingly serious face and a fuzzy little butt that wriggled around when he pounced on toys (or his littermates) in the videos the breeder was happy to send us. 

I'll admit to being hesitant about ordering a puppy like office supplies, but sometimes when a man's a-gonna, he's a-gonna. Any doubts I had melted away the moment I held him.

Him... you know, Puppy No-Name.

If you've never adopted from a breeder, all the pups from a single litter get temporary names starting with the same letter. We picked out Timothy from his mates, including Thomas, Tyler, Tina, and Theodore, but we were NOT going to name a dog Timothy.

Besides, Melissa and I were already pretty much settled on Indy, and I'd nailed down my best Sean Connery saying "We named the dog Indiana," even if my best Sean Connery is only so-so. 

The boys, on the other hand, were not cool with naming the dog Indy, even if the Indiana Jones flicks are three of their favorites. Neither would come right out and say it, but we figure it's probably because actress Inde Navarrette is a big thing right now with the success of Obsession, and they dreaded having their friends think their aged parents might try to be hip. 

Left without a name, we tried everything — but nothing everyone could agree on.

And Another Thing: Melissa and I have made plenty of mistakes trying to raise our boys right, but their taste in movies is the *chef's kiss* to our otherwise occasionally questionable parenting skills.

I won't drag you through the increasing aggravation, in no small part because I'd really like it if you'd continue reading my stuff. But I will tell you that over a span of 24 hours we went through Maverick, Butler, Merlin, Reagan, Jarvis, Thor, Bowie, Bogey (for Bogart), Whiskey, Wick (as in John), Frankie (Sinatra), Mac (Macallan), Tino (Tarantino), Booker, Einstein, Sherlock, Eddie, Rico, Mikey, Ronin, and for some reason, Skeletor.

While doing my best to be the diplomatic and calming voice of reason through all this — Father Knows Best but without the cheesy cardigan — I slammed the door hard on Skeletor. Because no. Just no.

The aggravation didn't come from the lack of resolution but from two sons in a house divided against itself.

If Son the Elder (Preston) suggested a name, then Son the Younger (Nate) said he hated it. And vice versa. When I suggested a name, Preston tended to like it, which made Nate reject it. When Melissa came up with one, Nate tended to like it, which of course Preston rejected.

I finally got desperate enough to throw "Timothy" back into the mix. Preston liked it. Nate hated it. So around we went one more time.

Looking back, it seems almost impossible that Puppy No-Name didn't end up Doggy McDogface.

Maybe next time, if Melissa and I aren't still stuck on "Indy."

On Five O'Clock Somewhere last week, I told Stephen Kruiser what happened, and he reminded me that everything I'd just said was classic family psychology behavior. There was no trace of bitterness in my voice when I said, "I am aware" but as you know, that show also involves day-drinking.

The boys eventually got snippy and snappy enough with one another that they were pissing me off, so I threatened to name the dog “Li’l S***.”

Which of course was the first name the boys could agree on.

"I am NOT calling the dog Li'l S***," Melissa said, nipping that one in the bud.

Sometimes, though — and please keep this between you and me — she totally calls him Li'l S***. You can probably guess exactly when.

A full day after the first shots at Fort Sumter, Melissa and I realized that what we needed was an outside voice, someone the boys both love and trust to come up with some names we might all like.

Nate was already texting with Cece, the younger daughter of our old neighbors, Jacque and Reno. Around the same ages, their two girls and our two boys became best friends in all possible combinations so long ago that Nate was barely out of diapers. The four of them remain inseparable, even after 13 years and a couple of moves on J&R's part. 

If we could get the boys to listen to anybody that we could get a hold of right the hell now, please, it would be Cece. So we very casually asked Nate to ask her for some names.

Not long after, we sat down for the weekly Family Dinner with Melissa's dad and brother. There are no phones at the table during Family Dinner. Nate had his phone at the table during Family Dinner, and thank goodness.

"Cece has some names for us," he said before reading three or four of them aloud. At least he waited until after his grandfather said grace. 

I said, "I like that first one a lot," and Melissa agreed. Preston nodded sagely — he's only 20, so I presume he's been working on the look — before adding, "I do, too." Nate said he thought it was a great name. Looking around the table in amazement, my 16-year-old sounded like a polished parliamentarian when he asked, "Are we all agreed? Do we have a name?"

Finally, yes, we had a name.

Things were so much easier when the boys were little and we'd just tell them what the dog was called. Or maybe we were fools to bring them into the process. But we were well-meaning fools, and that's how the guy called VodkaPundit ended up with a dog named Tito.

He's a very good boy.

Last Thursday: This Is the Fauci Legacy