The title of this post may in fact be misleading if a reader is hoping to hear about a visit from a superstar hockey player. This story is about a two-pound Yorkie named after said hockey player in perhaps the worst, most gender confused, and most glaringly disappointing pursuit of namesake anthropomorphism. If it’s any consolation for readers hoping for my husband’s Doppelganger, I am writing while watching hockey and The Mighty Ducks in between periods. 

Dogs: I have nothing against their dignity as dogs but I begin to grow annoyed when they are treated as people. Crosby, my parents two-pound female dog whose only similarity to the game of hockey is her approximately equal size to a puck, believes itself to be human, and is treated mostly like an incarnate deity. In the car, she sits only in the passenger seat. For dinner, there is a seat at the table and a plate of pasta prepared, ice cream for dessert. In the master bed it sleeps and also poops whenever it wants. It growls and it bites but insults against its nature are handled similar to a new mother hearing “your baby is ugly,” or something else equally absurd. But with my nest full and growing its hard to say what I won’t do when its empty, so carry on parents and enjoy your 6th baby.

Children: they challenge each and every characteristic about their parents, not by calculated intention, but by their nature and love anything contrary to their parents desires, mostly for their parent’s good and definitely for the salvation of their souls, most especially their mother’s particular distaste of a yipper dog.

Crosby was desperate for food and shelter and my sister got out of it because her kids are allergic.

The first notice of her four paw pitter patter, ears flopping, appearing extra  weighed down and floppy due to a few too many gourmet cheeseburgers, sent shrieking excited squeals through each of my children’s bodies and out through their mouths at a pitch that Crosby probably heard better than me. Before either parent could explain the terms of agreement of Crosby’s one and only overnight visit, each child spoke.

“OH MOMMY I AM SO HAPPY, I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO HAVE A DOG FOREVER!” screamed a very ill-informed James.

“Wow, it is just so nice to have a yoggy, woofy woof woof woof, you are mine, all mine” Josie spoke in terms she hoped Crosby would understand.

“Squeal, ahhhh, squeal, yippee” Rita scampered and chased until she could finally grasp the dog’s excess neck skin just begging a one year old to clamp as accidentally aggressively as possible.

They fed her juice from their cups, eggs straight from their plates. Chocolate was stolen from the pantry’s top shelf and generously shared with the probably allergic dog. Petting was attempted, but grabbing and throwing was much more effective and seemingly fun. The dog had a lot to worry about being away from home, much more than just Pepsi withdrawal.

Though I will most likely never allow anyone in this family to own a dog, I’ll admit, kids and animals are pretty cute, and yesterday mine taught me that caring for an animal whose preferred pastime is biting my ankle.  I’m super sure Crosby is happy to be home, though.