Hobbes VR: The only Weimeraner in history that was as smart as he was pretty.
Three-year-olds state the truth when freely speaking their minds. In my experience, it’s not until ages five+ that children learn the benefits of saying what other people want to hear, what is socially acceptable, or better yet, how to speak on rather prickly subject matters without consenting to any preconceived opinion whatsoever.
Anyone that has raised or witnessed the unbridled charms of a three-year-old know that they tell things how they are, with reckless abandon. And T-Rex, our preschooler, is the master of stating the sometimes painfully obvious. He seeks out truth and adheres to fact, not only delivering accurate observations but eschewing fluffy candy-coated feel-good notions should they be false. I have far too many stories of his untamed tongue to post.
I’m beginning to think that children are born natural conservatives, even less than compassionate ones, until opposing views are introduced by familiar adults.
On July 19th, the beloved Weimeraner dog that I purchased for my husband as a wedding gift was laid to rest under a hundred-year-old maple, deep in the hilly expanse behind our home.
Hobbes was with us from the beginning of our journey and was near perfect, given his eccentric breed. His destructive period was brief, only about a year. Notable offenses include eating one wool area rug, two pairs of leather shoes (both mine), innumerable slippers, and one original (!) oil painting that he knocked off the wall then promptly consumed, leaving only sparse canvas fibers as evidence. When he didn’t die from those toxic oils, much less get indigestion, we knew for certain that Hobbes was indeed a very solid dog.
Our three older children took the loss of Hobbes very well considering the dog was family to each since infancy. But we weren’t sure how to best explain the death to T-Rex, who appeared very confused during the graveside memorial service yet refused to be escorted elsewhere. So, my husband lovingly conveyed to our young son that Hobbes had simply fallen asleep as we do each night but would not be waking in the morning.
But apparently, our T-Rex did not need or want our lighter take on death and dying.
The following night our eleven-year-old daughter asked to say grace before dinner. As tears fell, she thanked God for the gift of our dear Hobbes. She thanked Him for granting our elderly dog such a long, happy life and for taking Hobbes up to heaven so that we can see him again someday…
At that very second, T-Rex curtly interrupted his sister’s prayer with a poker-straight face and authoritative tone…
"My dog is dead. He is not in heaven. He is in his death hole!"
Five heads snapped up, eyes wide open, all unsure of whether best to cry or double up on the kitchen floor.
Our unaffected three-year-old then picked up his miniature fork and proceeded to eat his dinner…as if he’d uttered nothing at all.
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