[Dedicated to Mom: You know I'm just kidding...]
It was an early summer, Sunday morning. The kind where the flies don't seem such a nuisance with pancakes on the griddle, a pot of syrup bubbling on the stove with berries of red and blue and a healthy dose of butter mixed in for good measure. Sun pours through kitchen windows, and kids run about, fighting and hollering until plates are set and food is ready. Silver dollars never had such power but in pancake form.
Fast forward 20 years
It's that same type of early summer, Sunday morning. But now the griddle is idle and looks a forgotten shrine (though still more sacred than traditional ones), and the only remnants of a shared meal drips off of the counter onto tile floor as the cat laps up spilled milk.
The kids are still fighting and it seems that the currencies have changed:
"Mom, I can't believe we're taking Conan. I mean, we're hiking up a mountain, he'll just complaint he whole time and demand to be carried once he gets tired."
"Yeah he always wanders off and gets lost and we have to go find him--it's like he's retarded."
I knew my sister crossed a line with that last remark. You see, Conan is our 3 year old corgi. Despite the height, weight and species difference he's still definitely family. And like family, you don't tell your mom that your younger brother retarded, even if he is sometimes. I'll admit that he could outwit many of his three-year old peers (and he's quite good at herding, despite mom's protests), however, he's still a three year old boy in the body of a corgi, and he's not getting any older underneath all that fur.
This fact can lead to some inter-sibling squabbling whenever we want to do physical activities that Conan was just not meant to do (have you ever seen a corgi's legs?).
The real issue is that Conan is the Golden Child--literally and figuratively. There was a time ago that sister and I would return from the creek triumphantly, holding bullfrog or crawdad in hand, covered absolutely in mud up to our chest--one foot in the house and our lives would be cut short. Conan, on the other hand, returns from a fresh creek-mud bath, only to root and toot across carpet and rug like a baby piglet while receiving threats of a bath, and oh-you're-such-a-little-pot-belly-pig harassment. And if he ever does truly raise the ire of either mom or dad, he'll cock his head at you in that corgi way, bending brows and hearts at the same time. Sister never had that level of cuteness, and I was always too stubborn.
And so our golden-furred brother jumps into the van before we have time to debate the logistics of elevation, incline and corgi-leg height--he's coming with us, hell or high water (just not too high).
[...we know that you love all your children equally]
It was an early summer, Sunday morning. The kind where the flies don't seem such a nuisance with pancakes on the griddle, a pot of syrup bubbling on the stove with berries of red and blue and a healthy dose of butter mixed in for good measure. Sun pours through kitchen windows, and kids run about, fighting and hollering until plates are set and food is ready. Silver dollars never had such power but in pancake form.
Fast forward 20 years
It's that same type of early summer, Sunday morning. But now the griddle is idle and looks a forgotten shrine (though still more sacred than traditional ones), and the only remnants of a shared meal drips off of the counter onto tile floor as the cat laps up spilled milk.
The kids are still fighting and it seems that the currencies have changed:
"Mom, I can't believe we're taking Conan. I mean, we're hiking up a mountain, he'll just complaint he whole time and demand to be carried once he gets tired."
"Yeah he always wanders off and gets lost and we have to go find him--it's like he's retarded."
I knew my sister crossed a line with that last remark. You see, Conan is our 3 year old corgi. Despite the height, weight and species difference he's still definitely family. And like family, you don't tell your mom that your younger brother retarded, even if he is sometimes. I'll admit that he could outwit many of his three-year old peers (and he's quite good at herding, despite mom's protests), however, he's still a three year old boy in the body of a corgi, and he's not getting any older underneath all that fur.
This fact can lead to some inter-sibling squabbling whenever we want to do physical activities that Conan was just not meant to do (have you ever seen a corgi's legs?).
The real issue is that Conan is the Golden Child--literally and figuratively. There was a time ago that sister and I would return from the creek triumphantly, holding bullfrog or crawdad in hand, covered absolutely in mud up to our chest--one foot in the house and our lives would be cut short. Conan, on the other hand, returns from a fresh creek-mud bath, only to root and toot across carpet and rug like a baby piglet while receiving threats of a bath, and oh-you're-such-a-little-pot-belly-pig harassment. And if he ever does truly raise the ire of either mom or dad, he'll cock his head at you in that corgi way, bending brows and hearts at the same time. Sister never had that level of cuteness, and I was always too stubborn.
And so our golden-furred brother jumps into the van before we have time to debate the logistics of elevation, incline and corgi-leg height--he's coming with us, hell or high water (just not too high).
[...we know that you love all your children equally]
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