Our Love Opens the Door

Thing 1, you may recall has a puppy. The puppy is a digger and a chewer, a smoker and a toker, some people call her Maurice, but her name is Love. Love the puppy.

This morning Thing 1 comes out of his bedroom, aka MY bedroom, as usual the last one to join the morning party. Thing 2 runs as he does every morning to investigate the sound of a lone door opening in a quiet hallway, and more so to see his big brother which excites him into communicating through a series of jumps and squeals, not unlike his father during a) his team winning their respective sporting event, or b) his team losing their respective sporting event. I squeal, only deeper.

We immediately started playing, as is the custom, and I pretended that I couldn’t see the boy hiding behind said door. I went to the puppy, laying on her back with tongue and tail wagging, sprawled across her bed, aka MY bed, and asked her if she had opened the door.

“Yes, Daddy!” said Thing 1, also squealing, “My puppy opened the door.”

“Your puppy did that? Really? She doesn’t have thumbs.”

“Really. My Love always opens the door.”

I looked at him for a moment. “So, you’re saying that your Love opened the door?”

“Yes. My Love opened the door.”

To my heart.

I picked him up and hugged him. Then I threw him on the bed. My bed.

Rilo Kiley
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