Having spent the past 15 years as the father of three boys, I’d thought I’d heard, said, and seen it all in this house of ours.
“Stop riding the cardboard box down the stairs … Who’s putting the green Army men in the Christmas train under the tree? … Please, enough farting on your brother, he’s going to throw up again …”
But yesterday morning, I was treated to a new one, thanks to one of Cooper’s buddies, Pete, who was making his maiden voyage into our home.
I could not find Mister Sexy, our somewhat infamous 7-pound YorkiePoo. Which is odd, because he’s usually at or near your feet. I guess when you’re 7 pounds, you follow your 200-pound lead blocker through life. Makes sense.
But in a search of the house, here he came running out of Coop’s room, tin foil hanging from his beard.
So I went downstairs and opened the back door to the driveway: “Hey, Pete, Mister Sexy ate your taco in your back pack.”
Pete stops dribbling and looks at Coop: “Whoa! It was zipped up in there! How’d he do that?”
Coop, smacking the ball away and tossing up a hook shot, unfazed: “You don’t know our dog.”
So I guess we’re just going to ignore the whole why-is-there-a-taco-in-your-backpack part of the discussion.