“Freya, wait!” I call. “Remember what we talked about with new animals?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She pouts. “Pet room first. No being alone with them. I heard, Mommy.”
“It’s for your good and his. You scare him. He might run away. Or give old Queenie a heart attack,” I say.
Right on cue, the ancient girl swaggers up to lick my hand.
Icannotbelieve she’s still with us, but I’m grateful for every day.
She’s going on 130 in dog years, a unicorn blessing I’m not sure what we did to deserve.
But that’s life in the Pruitt household—and it’s as good as it is surprising. It just means we’re running more of a zoo than a house, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Three dogs, two cats—if Buttercup works out—a little pond full of fat, colorful koi, and yes, we even have a rescue goat roaming around in the backyard. There’s also an elderly rabbit in a hutch by the side of the house, which is Freya’s responsibility to clean out and care for.
She’s good about it.Mostly.
“Woman, what happened to our rules? We’re maxed out on pets,” Brady mutters, trying not to laugh as his arms wind around my waist. “I told you if you bring one more fur ball home, we’ll need a bigger house.”
I bite back a laugh of my own because he’s only half joking.
Not long after we tied the knot and found out I was expecting, we moved away from Seattle proper, sprawling into the suburbs like a good dual-income family with ample money to burn.
But this mansion has over two acres andsix bedrooms.
We’ve found a place for all of them, plus two true guest rooms that serve us nicely whenever friends or family visit.
I lay my hand on his chest, pushing playfully. “Aw, come on. Three more cats will max out our space. We’d be using it efficiently.”
“No more,” Brady calls gruffly, loud enough for Freya to hear. “The girl needs time to focus on her homework.”
“School’s easy! I’ll have time with ten cats, Dad!” she yells back, sitting cross-legged, thankfully a comfortable distance from Buttercup. “Just gotta get him to love me first.”
“Of course he’ll love you. Give it a week or two for him to settle in,” I say, kissing little Noah on the cheek and setting him down. He immediately toddles off toward the new carrier, only to be stopped by his big sister as she scoops him up.
“Noah,” Freya whines. “Don’t get close, he has to get used to us. And Mom said I get to hang out with him first!”
“Be nice to your brother,” Brady growls.
“Kitty!” Noah yells, clapping his hands.
Chaos,I think.
But that’s the life we chose.
The sweetest chaos with two rambunctious kids and our own private menagerie. Thankfully, two of our dogs are seniors: Queenie and Rufus. Aside from our little dynamo corgi named Liz, the dogs don’t pay too much attention to the new arrival.
To them, it’s old hat.
No doubt when Buttercup makes his presence known, they’ll have more to say.
“He’s going to need time to recover and rest. So even when he’s nicer, you have to be careful,” I tell Freya as I help set the table.
At this point, I don’t know if the toy on the floor I’m stepping over belongs to the dogs or Noah.
Probably both.
“With you in charge of his recovery, he’ll probably grow his ear back in no time.” Brady grins, bringing our food to the table.
