Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living...

“I’m just going to pick up the boy from daycare and then it’s date night.”

And the lady says “Oh! How old is he?”

“He’s three.”

“Mine too! Where are you registering him for kindergarten it’s such a hassle-”

And that’s when I realized I said “boy” and not “dog” because I always think of Charlie as “good boy” but this slip up has lead to a miscommunication.

The lady is now 6 minutes into a clearly needed rant about how unnecessarily complex shopping for schools is, esp when you have a neurodivergent child, so I can’t just tell her that Charlie is a dog because then she’ll feel awkward for unloading on me and she clearly has enough going on.

“It really depends on who he’s with. He’s very quiet at he but won’t shut up if he’s at the park or has a friend over.”

“was it hard to potty-train him?”

“he’s adopted, but I was genuinely amazed at how good he already was with hygene and potty stuff.”

“mine’s just obsessed with paw patrol and Frozen, drives me crazy!”

“I imagine. Charlie is colorblind so he’s not as into tv, but he always wants a toy if I take him anywhere with them.”

“oh gosh the toys! And the kids are so rough on them!”

“yeah Charlie can destroy a stuffed animal in about 2 minutes, so I only buy him the really cheap ones.”

“Does he throw tantrums when they break?”

The Very Good Boy in question, Charleston Chew.