Labradoodle Dutch Dog Ollie
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

In kindergarten, my granddaughter Maddie asked for a dog.

“NO. I’m allergic to dogs,” her mother said.

In first grade, Maddie lobbied. “Some dogs are hypoallergenic. We can ask the vet.”

“NO,” mother said.

In second grade, Maddie wrote letters on the computer. A dog will make me responsible. I will walk the dog. I will feed the dog.

“Sometimes we take trips,” said her father.

“Grammy will take care of the dog,” her brother Ben said.

In third grade, Maddie cuddled the fluffy dog Santa brought her. He barked and wagged his tail when you pushed the button.

“He’s not real,” Ben said.

In fourth grade, Maddie’s Mom spent an hour with some friends who owned a labradoodle. She was not allergic.

Two days before Christmas, Dad drove the family out to a farm. They came home with an apricot colored labradoodle smaller than a squirrel.

Olive is now five months old. She’s housebroken except when it pours rain. She, Maddie and Ben chase each other around the house. Olive shakes her toys. She chews her rawhide instead of the rug.

When the family went to Williamsburg for Thanksgiving,  Grammy and Grandpa got to bring Olive to their condo for a week.