When my 10-year-old daughter started to make her plea for a dog, I knew I was in for a stubborn brawl. Like an attorney arguing her case, she pitched her arguments: she’d be safer at home after school; she’d learn responsibility; she’d get exercise walking it.
After wearing down my resistance with her compelling courtroom convictions, I agreed; within certain parameters.
I had grown up with german shepherds; big, beautiful beasts with long snouts, long fur, and long tails. Their reputation aligned well with the “safety” argument, but their long fur meant lots of shedding, which I didn’t want to deal with. They’re also bigger than I wanted, so they got crossed off the list.
After doing some research, I landed on a dog I wasn’t familiar with: the boxer.
A friend’s grandson, tending sick baby chickens, was late for football practice. When he arrived, he apologized to the coach, saying he had chick problems.
