I thought I was done with diapers for good. Now I’m changing them daily.

At least this time they’re on a dog and not a human. In a way, this is a good news story. My carpets are protected, and my beloved/maligned mutt, Niko, gets to stay alive. His accidents were becoming frequent enough that friends and family members were starting to subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) suggest it was his time to shuffle off this mortal coil. Saturday, he turned sixteen, which, in dog years, is twice as old as dirt. Everyone knows dirt is eight. He’s outlived his brother from the same litter by most of a decade. If I’m not careful, he’ll outlast the rest of us, too. He’s making a good attempt at it, even as his body is showing some signs of wear and tear. He’s mostly deaf and extremely lazy, not that he was a working dog in the first place. He doesn’t bark to scare away intruders. He can’t hear himself, so he gave up on trying to make sounds. He also doesn’t cuddle. For most of his life, we’ve been polite but distant acquaintances. Once a day, he whines at me to feed him, and I oblige. Then he goes back to napping. Were that the extent of his activities, we never would have had a problem. Over the last year or so, however, he’s managed to squeeze in multiple accidents a day. That nearly brought our cohabitation arrangement—and his life—to an abrupt end. Those doggy Pampers saved us all.

I tried everything to change his regressing bathroom habits. He’s supposed to address his bodily needs at his leisure by letting himself in and out through the doggy door. For nearly fifteen years, he stuck to that plan. In the last several months, however, he had a change of heart. Now, the inside of my house is his toilet. At first, I thought maybe he was too old and tired to walk out to the yard. I carried him out there like a princess on a luxurious sedan chair. Niko refused to do his business. Instead, he would simply hold it until he got back to his preferred pee spot, which was my entire house. I tried deep cleaning the carpet to get rid of familiar smells that might be drawing him back, but that just made him defile new areas. He wasn’t picky as long as it was indoors. He’d urine-ify hardwood floors and cold tile with equal abandon. After multiple recommendations from people who’ve dealt with old dogs, I put out puppy pee pads. Those were the one thing in my house he specifically wouldn’t go to the bathroom on. If I would have lined my entire floor with them, I could have solved the problem. I have to admit his behavior seemed malicious. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to be the one to put him down. He wasn’t suffering; he was just a jerk. I wasn’t sure if my kids would ever forgive me if I killed their dog because I was tired of cleaning up after him. More importantly, I didn’t think I could forgive myself. My Catholic guilt extends to the animal kingdom, even the parts of it that are a direct threat to my happiness and sanity. I was determined to keep giving him food and shelter for as long as he wanted to stick around. In return, I merely wanted him to stop desecrating every square inch of floor in my house. Clearly that was one request too far.

Then death paid a visit. When we went to Missouri a few weeks ago, we lined up a friend to check on our animals. That would work for the pigs and guinea pig, but we couldn’t trust Niko in that situation. By the time my buddy got over here to verify the animals were still alive, my house would be destroyed from the worst kind of water damage. Instead, we made a half-hour detour to drop off Niko at my parents’ house in Illinois. At the end of the trip, I called my mom to check on the dog. I was moderately afraid he might pass away while he was there. It’s a dick move to send your beloved pet to your parents’ house to die. A dog did die, but it wasn’t Niko. My parents’ Yorkie, Moose, had a sudden and unexpected medical emergency. After paying a ton of money at an overnight veterinary hospital in another city, my parents made the heartbreaking decision to put him down. He was only seven. My parents adored that dog. I don’t want to say where he would rank among their seven children, but it wouldn’t have been last. Niko, meanwhile, kept on trucking, happily peeing on my parents’ rugs while they were gone. My best guess is that the doggy grim reaper showed up for Niko and took Moose by mistake. Who knows what shenanigans Niko pulled to throw death off his trail? I should be nicer to him. When death shows up next time, Niko might redirect him to one of us.

My dog was unphased by Moose’s death. Likely, he didn’t even notice. He wasn’t bred for situational awareness or emotional empathy. His only job is to look cute, and he does it well. He would be similarly nonplussed if I disappeared. We’re long-term roommates, but the bond isn’t much stronger than that. Pets really do take after their owners. He learned that aloof attitude from me. Maybe it’s that protective layer of Zen-like serenity that’s kept him in one piece for all these years in our extremely stressful household surrounded by kids and pigs. It’s probably why I’ll still be writing newsletters like this when he’s twenty.

Niko resumed his old habits soon as he got back to our house. Out of ideas, I confined him to a hallway near the doggy door. That seemed to work. He never, ever peed on that narrow stretch of tile, despite being exactly the same flooring material that’s in the kitchen next door, which is among his favorite bathrooms. If we left the kitchen door open a crack, he would slip in there and do his business. It was like he waited all day for the chance. The hallway tile must have had some magical protection over it that I didn’t notice. I wish I could find whatever wizard cursed it so he could extend that protection to the rest of the house. Lola theorized that Niko’s bathroom struggles were due to the pigs, whose room is on the way out of the house. He’s afraid of them these days. When he was younger, he used to push them around, even though they’re many times his size. In confrontations, he’d remember he’s descended from wolves and they’d remember they’re descended from bacon. Now, he can’t hear, and his eyesight is questionable. Sometimes, he seems to see fine, and other times, he appears functionally blind. It’s selective depending on what he’s trying to get away with. His sensory issues make him reluctant to approach the pigs, which is understandable. I wouldn’t want to scuffle with a ham bulldozer I couldn’t see or hear either. That doesn’t explain why Niko continued to have accidents at my parents house or why he doesn’t pee when I take him outside. I think Niko uses the pigs as a convenient excuse. The kids do the same thing. No, I don’t believe Gilly used a marker to write your initials on the wall. I’m not dusting for hoof prints.

Niko didn’t like hallway jail, even though he could escape it and go outside through the doggy door any time he wanted. He didn’t want fresh air. He wanted the great indoors and all the forbidden bathroom opportunities it offered. It was a shame because, besides going potty, his only other activity is sleeping. He could do that just as well in the hallway since I moved his dog bed there, but apparently it wasn’t the same. He wanted the ambiance of being surrounded by a bunch of screaming children he couldn’t hear. There really is no replacing silent chaos. It’s like being entertained by your own private troop of mimes. Niko wanted out so badly that he scratched at the ancient, eight-foot-tall swinging door that kept him confined. It now looks like it was attacked by an infuriated wolverine. Our house was built a hundred years ago by the treasurer of a bank and has all sorts of fancy rich person flourishes, like a back staircase so you don’t have to see the help and inlaid floors so you can see art when you look at your feet. If that guy knew what would one day become of his architectural masterpiece, he wouldn’t have splurged on any of those features. If he’s in hell, he probably has a live video feed of exactly what his house looks like now. Niko could be a key part of his eternal punishment. No wonder that dog has lived so long.

My brother-in-law suggested that I should tape tin foil to the back of the swinging door to discourage Niko from damaging it. His claws sliced right through that thin metal armor. That’s when I finally broke down and bought doggy diapers. It’s the second time in Niko’s life that he’s worn them. We had them on him and his brother Spencer when we first brought them home. (Yes, that name was the original inspiration for the character Spenser in The Chosen Twelve.) I call Niko a mutt, but really he’s a designer breed made by a single person in Missouri, who mixed together every kind of little yappy dog she could get her hands on. The resulting hybrid was supposed to seldom bark and also be litter box trainable. Basically, we thought we were buying cats. When we got Niko and Spencer home, we learned the truth. They never used the makeshift litter box we set up. We ended up putting them in diapers until we could install a doggy door and build a fence around the yard. The diapers were fabric scraps attached by Velcro that my mom had used when training her own dogs. For absorbency, we slapped on a maxi pad, which we threw away after each use. After we got the fence installed, the dogs used the yard and our problems were over. We threw away all the diapers. Flash forward fifteen years and we’re right back where we started. Time is a flat circle, and it looks a lot like a pee spot on my carpet.

Unlike the ones we used last time, these new diapers are professionally made, no maxi pads required. The technological advances of the last fifteen years really are amazing. I bought two three-packs of diapers from Amazon. After the first two days, it was clear that wouldn’t be enough. I ordered three more packs. I put the diapers on Niko as soon as he leaves his hallway home. He’s now free to nap in his old spot, which is all he wants from life. I can accommodate that, as long as the rest of his life isn’t unreasonably long. I’ll give it another year or two. Beyond that, the extra cost of running the washing machine so much might break me. Niko, of course, hasn’t offered to chip in for the water bill. He’s a simple dog. He just wants to water the carpet.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James

I encourage my kids to have hobbies. That’s not quite true. When my kids choose to have hobbies, I try not to actively stand in their way. I don’t want them to claim someday that they could have been the next Rembrandt if only their cheap father hadn’t refused to buy them paint. I’m as encouraging as I have to be to avoid being their scapegoat, but I have a price cap. If one of my girls claims they could have been the next Michelangelo if only I had boughten them a chisel and marble, they’re out of luck. If you think restaurant prices are out of control these days, you should see the markup on importing two tons of Italian stone. Recently, I provided modest financial support for my children to pursue three different activities I’ve never tried out myself. (The fourth kid just wants to watch her tablet, which is fine with me. I already pay for Netflix.) I don’t know that any of these new pastimes will lead to lifelong fulfillment or lucrative careers, but they keep my squad entertained for now. Also, supporting them helps me not feel like a dream-stifling monster. My goal everyday is to not be quite the worst parent in the history of the world. It’s a harder threshold to clear than you might think.

The most unexpected request came from my thirteen-year-old, Betsy. One day, she suddenly announced that she wanted to play the violin. Prior to that moment, she had never expressed any interest in the instrument. She didn’t need any band implements. She inherited her mother’s talent for singing. She’s in the most elite eighth grade choir group and was selected to join the exclusive high school song and dance troupe next fall. I thought her own finely tuned vocal cords would be all the musical stimulation she’d need. I was wrong. After Betsy’s request, I checked how much violins cost. I thought they were going to be super expensive. I’ve read articles about a multi-million dollar Stradivarius being stolen or forgotten on a train. That would be one heck of a discovery when somebody empties out the lost and found. I figured the regular kind of violin used by kids must still be expensive. When my eleven-year-old, Mae, decided to play the saxophone, the school tried to charge us $1,500 for her instrument. Off-name-brand versions were still five hundred dollars on Amazon. I went above and beyond in my quest to be the stingiest parent ever and managed to secure a used one for seventy-five dollars on Facebook Marketplace. Mae has been playing it happily ever since. At her current grade and skill level, the instruments aren’t what are holding kids back. A truck could run over every shiny thing in the brass section and the middle school band would sound about the same. When Mae levels up to the point that she’s too good for her bargain basement instrument, I will, of course, buy her a better one. I might even up my price limit to eighty dollars.

I didn’t think I’d be that lucky with a violin. Then I actually checked the prices. “Good” brand new violins were two hundred bucks, and cheap new ones were listed for fifty. For the first time ever, I was shocked in a good way. These weren’t wooden instruments handcrafted by European masters. They’re plasticky composites stamped out of a big machine somewhere, most likely a country without regulations or labor laws. But based on the reviews, they were good enough for an eighth grader teaching themselves how to play from YouTube tutorials. You really just need a box to hold four strings. Anything beyond that is showing off. I ordered Betsy a violin on the spot. I’m not paying for formal lessons. This will be something for her to pick at when she finds gaps in her already overbooked schedule. Maybe this summer she’ll learn to play some basic songs, or perhaps she’ll never touch it again. Either way I’m not out much money. For a modest fee, I get credit for allowing her to pursue her musical dreams, however far she wants to take them. If she doesn’t become a concert violinist, that’s on her. I’m sure many of the soloists in the New York Philharmonic use fifty dollar instruments.

Mae was the next kid who wanted to try something new. I wrote a few weeks ago about how she decided to try out for the tennis team, which isn’t a sport I have any experience with. I figured there was no harm in letting her make the attempt. In the worst case scenario, it would be a valuable learning experience for how to deal with failure and rejection. I got mine the hard way by writing hundreds of thousands of words no one read. Getting the same lesson in two afternoons of hitting a ball over (or not over) a net seemed much more efficient. Well, Mae wasn’t in the mood for learning. She made the team. It helped that there were twenty-four spots and only nineteen girls tried out. She also seems to have a natural aptitude for the sport. That wasn’t how I expected things to turn out. I was thinking of sports like basketball, baseball, and soccer, where kids are on traveling teams from the time they can walk. I see parents spend so much money to turn their kids into scholarship athletes, but apparently tennis isn’t one of those sports around here. It’s a bit too fancy for our rural-ish suburb, so not many kids do it. Mae could also probably make the team for lacrosse or polo, as long as the school provided the horse.

My wife’s boss was a Division One tennis player in college. He tells stories about how he spent all his free time in middle and high school going to private lessons and high-pressure matches around the state. It paid for his degree but made him hate the sport. Now, he never plays. Lola asked him what racket we should buy for Mae. He recommended a few options in the two-hundred dollar range. Lola didn’t get that message to me until I was already on the way back from Walmart with a fifteen-dollar racket Mae picked out herself. She loves it. She’s been playing with it everyday for a few weeks, and so far it’s held up just fine. As with her seventy-five dollar saxophone, at her current skill level, the equipment is not the limiting factor. When she becomes better, we’ll reevaluate. We’ll never get to the point where I’m taking her to private lessons every night. She’s welcome to learn everything the part time coach at school has to offer. Beyond that, she’s on her own. There’s always YouTube.

My nine-year-old, Lucy, is pursuing the least disruptive hobby of the bunch. It’s not loud, and I don’t have to drive her anywhere on a daily basis. She’s really, really into gardening. I’ve talked about it before, but her green thumb has gone into overdrive ever since it became warm enough for her to plant things outside. Gardening is much funner when the ground isn’t frozen solid. Who knew? Even before spring officially began, Lucy was ready. She planted seeds in starter trays indoors to give them a jump on the season. When we went to Missouri for vacation, she left detailed instructions for the guy checking on our pets to make sure he watered her burgeoning garden. She also took pictures of the backs of all the seed packets she hadn’t been able to plant yet. That way she could scroll through her phone’s gallery and continue reading about them during our trip. When she’s home, she flips through those same packets every morning like she’s reviewing Pokémon cards. She might be a little obsessed. I fully approve. It’s a cheap hobby (at this stage), and it has the potential to make the outside of my house look amazing. I’m all for encouraging the one thing my kids do that isn’t actively destructive.

This weekend, I gave her an even bigger hit of her drug of choice: I took her to a gardening show. She was in heaven. We received a free bush just for walking in the front doors and then bought several packages of seeds for native flowers. We rounded out our haul with a garden trowel and some bulbs for some kind of giant flowering bush thing. I’m not the gardener in the family, so don’t ask me to get too technical. Some of these seeds come with more rules than my board games. The bulbs have to be dug up before it gets cold, whereas the black-eyed Susan seeds have to be put in the fridge for thirty days to simulate going through the winter. These plants are pickier than my kids. They also have more follow-through. If a child doesn’t get something, they might threaten to hold their breath until they pass out, but they can’t actually do it. Seeds can definitely die on purpose if you don’t cave in to their nitpicky demands. It’s the ultimate temper tantrum. I suspect Lucy will be doing exactly what the seeds want, no matter how much work it is for her. And she’ll love every second of it.

After the garden show, we went to a big box hardware store to finish out Lucy’s supply list. She picked out the biggest planter they had in stock to start her own private garden. Instead of a driveway, we have a large parking slab behind our house. It’s a barren eyesore. I would love it if Lucy spruced it up with an eclectic mix of potted flowers. She’s welcome to plant among the landscaping of the front yard as well, but it’s harder there since she has to work around the existing flora. The concrete out back is a blank canvas. Of all the kids trying new things this month, I think Lucy is the one who’s likely to stick with her hobby for the rest of her life. I know many people who garden as adults but very few who play the musical instruments or sports they tested out in middle school. If she one day has a house surrounded by beautiful gardens, I’m going to take a little bit of the credit because I literally helped her get started with my credit card.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James