This time, I'm not the mom (National Post, November 3, 2005)

Ronny comes home from a walk with Polo, and indignantly reports that a neighbour has asked him, "Aren't you a little old for a new puppy?" I agree with my husband that this is, although pertinent, an "age-ist" question. Upon further contemplation, my optimistic mate decides it must be a compliment, for "she would never have said something so insulting unless she meant it as a joke." Ha ha ha.

They say it's time to buy a condo "when the kids move out and the dog dies." Our kids moved out 10 years ago, and our old black lab Harley died in July, but instead of condo-shopping, we renovated our house to approximate the ambiance of a daycare centre for our grandchildren. We also acquired a yellow Labrador retriever puppy, now 14 weeks old (this time around I opted for blond hair on black pants over black hair on white furniture). Polo is not quite housebroken. And to judge from the shredded hem of my bathrobe, he will be a champion homework-eater one day.

The renovation was my idea, and the puppy was Ronny's, but the former decision was contingent on the latter. I had hoped that a few weeks of freedom after Harley's peaceful demise might awaken him to the practical benefits of doglessness, but no. Owning a "Lab" until he shuffles off this mortal coil is one of Ronny's non-negotiable needs. But I can't envision a dog without a handy backyard. Ergo no apartment for us any time soon.

Once the dog question was settled, and with it a further 15-year commitment to living in our house (God willing), I took a critical look at our living quarters. After a purge of all the domestic detritus that had silted up in our unused space, we reclaimed the basement and attic floors for the proper care and enjoyment of visiting grandchildren (two published, one in proofs).

In the kitchen, gated off from the rest of the house is the puppy in his crate, upon which sit baskets of chew toys, smoked marrow bones, a bucket of training treats, and stacked dog-training books. Beside it are eating and water bowls, housebreaking mats, and furniture-protective grills. Elsewhere -- in the basement playroom, the third floor nursery, the family room and dining room -- are duplicates of all my grandchildren's paraphernalia: crib, Pack 'n Play, exersaucer, high chair, "bumbo" seat, baby monitor (also used for puppy), changing station with diapers, wipes, lotions and unguents, play mat, musical swing, Baby Einstein viewing corner, toys, blocks, books, and toddler play table.

These testaments to new life are a constant reminder of the prodigious caretaking energy I once expended as a matter of course, but would never willingly undertake again. They summon 1969-era memories of a seven-month old baby and puppy in an upper duplex, both entirely under my management all day. As through a glass darkly, I recall bundling up myself and baby for our thrice-daily outings in -20C weather to accommodate the dog's needs. I shiver retroactively.

Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. I adore my grandchildren and frequently babysit, but I'm not the nanny. And one of the conditions for getting the new dog was that Ronny would be the traditional "mom." He has kept his word. Never a morning person, he now rises without complaint at 6 a.m. to feed, walk and play with Polo, so that when I amble downstairs at 7:30 a.m., the puppy's initial friskiness has abated, and I can enjoy my coffee and papers. I have graciously contracted to occasionally feed and let Polo out a few times a day, but that's all. It's rained a lot lately. I pity Ronny having to schlep to the park four times a day for Polo's exercise, although not actually enough to do it myself

My Montreal grandbaby, Toby, has a cold this week and, I am informed, has cried inconsolably over several nights. Poor little mite! Poor parents! I remember just how it was, and commiserate whole-heartedly with my exhausted daughter. Then I turn off the TV mute to pick up the thread of CSI: Miami, which her phone call has interrupted.

Later Ronny, suiting up for his midnight walk with Polo, confesses, "I don't remember it being this much work. Do you?" From under the duvet I murmur drowsily, "Yes, I remember very, very well." Then, lulled by the rhythm of a driving downpour, I sleep like a puppy.

© National Post 2005