On Saturday, Zarah and I were walking to the market in downtown Barrie. I was saying that I sort of thought Eve needed a dog, and I wasn't even necessarily opposed to the idea, but I'm such an inveterate waffler that I wasn't confident it would happen even if it was meant to. I HATE making big decisions. I do endless research, I go back and forth, I hope desperately that the final choice will be taken out of my hands one way or another - trust me, do NOT ever ask me to pick the restaurant unless you want to pass out from low blood sugar.
As we walked into the ATM vestibule, I was saying that I would love to have a dog around when Matt was away, and having to walk something a couple of times a day would probably be good for me AND Eve, and my dad loves dogs but can't have one because my mom hates them, so he'd like it too, but I couldn't get past the crap; I'm finally done cleaning up my kids' crap and something in me balks at the thought of taking in a family member that would NEVER learn to wipe its own ass. Then again, I told Eve that she could have a dog as soon as she was willing to pick up poop, so maybe that would be the turning point.
At this point, a very nice-looking older woman at the adjacent ATM burst out laughing and said she couldn't help overhearing and she had to share with me that she had had all the same reservations about getting a dog and now she couldn't imagine not having hers, that it sort of like how your own kids' crap was less revolting than other kids' crap, and she was the biggest suck for her dog ever.
We thanked her for her input, and as we left the bank, Zarah said "well, if you believe at all in signs from the universe, you HAVE to get a dog now."
Today as I was waiting for Eve to get home, I heard loud, furious barking from outside. My dad had driven Eve home, and he was following Eve to the house to get back some baking containers that my mom needed. And the dog from next door, who usually loves everyone, was in an attack pose looking at my dad, who dogs always love, and losing his ever-loving shit. It was as if my dad had said in dog language, I am here to steal all the bones and all the balls EVER. We all tried to calm the dog down, but it kept looking as if it wanted to eat my dad and bury him, then it grabbed a beer can someone had left on our lawn and took off. My dad shook his head and got in his car and drove away.
Someone tell the universe I don't do well with ambiguity.