A Dog named George

The kids, like every other kid on the planet, want a dog. A nice fluffy little pint-sized lap-dog that smells of daises and never makes a sound. Having been down that route with a terrier that lived 16.5 years, 4.5 past the normal life expectancy for his breed, I knew what having a dog was really all about and did my best to explain to the family why I didn’t want one and they shouldn’t want one. 

They were not persuaded and have continually pestered me. My youngest was particularly persistent and the issue caused a bit of a family crisis when, frustrated, I snapped, "You can't keep your room clean. How are you going to care for a dog"! She stomped off to her room, furious and crafted a note to her mother: 

"Mom, I'm sorry I can't keep my promise to live with you forever, because I can't live with Dad"!

I relented, conditionally. They could have a dog, but only after I was dead. To my surprise, they didn’t seem too upset. To my dismay, they began researching dogs and intensified the search every time I felt a bit under the weather. Seriously, a cold would result in the two youngest rushing to a laptop to search for pets on Craig’s list. They, with the help of my dear equally wanting a dog wife, even named the eventual pet, “George”. I fail to see the humor.