Doggy trial run prevents future grief

We're down to one pet: a tiny toad named Max, so my kids are pining. They want a puppy.

I resist. Because you know who'll really be raising any dog: Me.

But with my youngest heading off to kindergarten this fall, part of me wonders: Maybe I could handle another bundle of joy, the kind with fur at least.

So when my friend, Susan, went on summer vacation, I offered to watch their cute little puggle, Indy. She's sweet and well-behaved. And she meets my main requirements: She's good with kids, doesn't bark much and is potty trained.

We get to dog-sit Indy, who was voted cutest puppy on the Isle of Palms. It will be a doggy trial run for us.

Susan drops off Indy amid great excitement from my kids. Indy zips around happily.

She slows down finally, just long enough to scratch feverishly at her neck. She twists herself around, biting at her tail.

My husband scowls. Suffice it to say, our last bout with fleas in the house led to a time period he refers to as "Hell on Earth."

He and Indy eye each other.

Personally, I rather like the little dog.

She's mostly black with some brown, floppy ears and big brown eyes. She's small but not toyish.

For the rest of the day, my kids play with Indy until she flops onto the couch, exhausted.

They've thrown a tennis ball with her, taken her on several walks and fed her a few too many treats.

Even better, when I let Indy out, she poops in the back corner of our yard deep in a mound of ivy. I'm happy not to clean it up, though that will be the kids' job.

At night, I put Indy's crate in our bedroom so she feels secure away from home. I read while she snoozes and click off the light at midnight.

Around 4 a.m., Indy starts to lick. And scratch. And whimper.

I roll out of bed and open the crate door. She jumps up and walks around, paws poking into my side. She finally flops down. Then she licks. And scratches. And licks. And scratches.

This goes on for an undetermined length of time, perhaps hours, until we both get up for the day.

I let her out to chase away the morning's squirrels.

My son and I assemble a battlefield of Playmobil men. He's the Colonists. I get the Redcoats. We line up our men in perfect rows, tiny guns a-blazing.

Indy paws at the back door, so I let her in. She charges through our historic battlefield, knocking over the soldiers before plopping down in the middle of the plastic mayhem.

My son growls. Indy wags.

I warn the kids that today we'll be cleaning out our walk-in attic to get rid of unused toys and clothes so we can actually walk into the attic again.

Minutes later, my son spots Indy chewing the leg off his rubber frog. The kids fetch Indy's designated chew toy. She looks at it with great disinterest. She grabs a toy soldier nearby.

I'm reminded of a bored child looking for attention, even if it's the bad kind, so I suggest the kids go play with her. Nobody gets up.

I suggest it again. Then I command it.

Reluctantly, my daughter throws the ball a few times. Indy's new pet sheen has faded by Day Two.

I pass by our couch, which is beige but now features a coating of black Indy fur. I wipe it off and sweep. Indy jumps up, happy to replenish it.

A waft of Indy hits me. I'd forgotten about that certain smell of dog.

We find baby shampoo and soon Indy smells like a mix of new baby and wet puppy, and we're all laughing because she's shaking water everywhere.

Finally, Indy settles down on a recliner. She licks. She scratches. My husband heads off to bed. He emerges scowling.

Indy, he declares, has pooped in our bedroom suspiciously close to one of his pillows.

I wonder why. I clean it up.

Then I remember my guilty secret.

After our cats died, I missed them terribly. But there were certain little things I didn't miss.

I didn't miss tufts of fur floating across the floors. Or black pants adorned with white fur.

Or felines sneaking bites of food left on the table. Or litter boxes.

A few days later, I run into an old friend. I tell her about Indy and our doggy trial run.

Her kids want a golden retriever. Funny thing is, they're dog-sitting a friend's retriever in a few weeks.

I figure it's a divine plan to see whether her family, or mine, is ready for this commitment. Raising a pet for perhaps 15 years is no small deal.

Sure, they look good with that new pet dazzle.

But with a trial run, you get to see how much that dazzle dims.

If it doesn't, a new pet might be for you.

If the dazzle fades real fast, it doesn't have to be a guilty little secret. It's honesty.

Your family, like mine, isn't ready for the commitment that a furry family member deserves.

Reach Jennifer Berry Hawes at jhawes@postandcourier.com.