Tiny Doggie

 

One of my favorite children's books, "Owen," concerns a little mouse who won't give up his security blanket. The nutty next-door neighbor warns that Owen will be judged for clinging to the blanket; she advises punitive measures, such as dipping the blanket in foul-smelling vinegar.

(The author, Kevin Henkes, is a continual source of free therapy for me. He observes adult anxiety with a compassionate eye. When I was stressed about how to manage my daughter's hair, I would think of a passage from "Still Sal." In that novel, the father runs a brush twice through the lustrous locks of his little hyperactive girl. "Good enough," he says cheerfully, and he moves on with his day.)

So far, no one has urged my younger child to get rid of her own security blanket, which takes the form of a stuffed dog, "Tiny Doggie." But the dog is a kind of battlefield. If I want to wash it, I have to trick my daughter into distracting herself; the moment she discovers the dog is getting sudsy attention, she flips out. More recently, Susie has launched a campaign on a *new* front. "I like Doggie when he is old and crispy," she says. "I don't like when he is smooth."

The music teacher returns Doggie to my daughter, but she holds Doggie between pinched fingers, as if holding a stool sample. "That dog is very, very well loved," says a neighbor, but I can't help but wonder if a *different* kind of comment had been (at first) on the tip of his tongue. "You guys are so patient," observes a waitress, addressing my husband and me. And--since I am Larry David, in another form--I can't help but hear subtext. "Your children are wild, your stuffed animal is embarrassing, and I'm going to find the check for you just as fast as I can."

Ah well.

In a happy mood, my daughter expresses her feelings through Doggie. She animates Doggie; the little ragdoll gives me several (filthy) pecks on the cheek. I think my daughter couldn't care less about the waitress down the road. She tucks the dog under one arm; she is ready for sleep.