Springer Spaniel

Fact: I am losing my hearing.

Yesterday Anna and I had lunch together in the back room, now full of plants and about to be too cold to use. We were eating leftovers, and we were feeling very Sunday. “What kind of dog do you think I’ll get when I grow up?” She asked.

It seemed an odd question, to be honest. We’d been talking about work up until then, the kinds of things people do to earn money, and the multitude of ways people can make a difference.

But future is future, and if she wanted to imagine a dog, I could help. I thought hard. I thought about her living by herself with a dog of her own. She’s only 9. This was painful. Why was she already thinking about moving out? Nevertheless, unselfishly, I dove in. “A Springer Spaniel,” I said. I was going to say “They look a little like Snoopy,” but I realized she didn’t know who Snoopy was. That made me sad, too.

She balked, “Oh!" Then, "What does a Springer Spaniel do?”

“I’ll show you a picture on my computer,” I said. I sprang up helpfully. I was feeling better now, invigorated, excited about having picked a dog a little smaller than zelda but still long-haired and love-able. I pushed my laptop toward her.

She flinched.

“You think when I grow up I am going to become a dog?”

I tilted my head. “This is the kind of dog I think you’ll get...” I said. I was starting to lose ground, however. Beginning to see the error in my ways. Who was I to suppose I knew what kind of dog she’d want.

“Job.” she said. “What kind of job do you think I’ll get when I grow up?”

I am writing this in part because I can’t say it out-loud without laughing until I cry. “I think you’ll get a job that matters,” I told her once I'd caught my breath.

“Well, it is a cute dog,” she said. And I realized the second answer was almost as helpful as the first.