Minivan Mom: Yup, we needed another dog alright

There. I admitted it. In writing. So, to my dear husband, happy anniversary, happy birthday, merry Christmas — all rolled into one for years to come because now you can clip this out as published evidence that I am, one more time … Full. Of. It.

Why? Because I’m the one who swore up and down that I would not allow any more critters — two-legged or four-legged, covered with hair or not — into our house. Babies or puppies or naked mole rats, doesn’t matter. They’re a lot of work.

But, even before kids, we’d always had dogs. No. 1 also sweet-talked us into guinea pigs once. No fish, though, because I told the kids — as they begged and pleaded in front of the Bettas at PetsMart — I’m allergic to their scales, which two out of three still believe. Shhhhh.

We’ve had two pony-sized dogs for five years and they’ve truly tested my dog-loving patience. Their kill list over the years is impressive: the ottoman that accompanies my favorite chair, a Christmas breakfast coffee cake, unattended sticks of butter, a new outdoor dining set, the outside of our French doors, someone’s iPod, the cable box, the yard, countless toys, unsuspecting birds and lizards and some sort of rodent no longer identifiable without its head. Amazingly no shoes, however, which is how they’ve managed to remain with us. Just joking, animal activists. Promise.

Though they’re good-natured and sweet, they’re also quite gassy. Together they’ve definitely contributed to the depletion of the ozone layer. They also routinely forget who we are and that we belong in our house, too, and so moving from one room to another can shock them enough so they bark at us like we’re complete strangers. That’s not how you treat the people who feed you.

And now, there’s a third.

Three kids, three dogs. Well, really only 2.2 dogs because the new one is pretty darn small. Parents, take note, this is what happens when you try to do something good and teach your kids about the importance of helping others by volunteering … with a dog rescue group.

Initially, it was pretty low commitment. We showed up at events to publicize the group and then, as fosters started coming in, we’d care for them at another volunteer’s house. It was a good situation: play and care for puppies without having to housebreak them ourselves.

The kids wanted to keep each new dog.

“Pllllllease,” No. 3 would plead.

“No,” I said each time, using my firmest mom voice. “Our job is to look after them until they find their real, forever homes. We already have two dogs.”

Then she came along.

Snowy white with a freckled pink-and-brown nose, half of her 16-pound puppy body is ears, the other half tail. She adores people and gets so excited to see someone, anyone, that her ears flatten all the way back and her tails swings so hard that it’s truly amazing she doesn’t move sideways. That long, feathery tail even wags when she naps. I was immediately smitten.

I tried to fight it, but the more I was around her, the more she felt like she belonged with us. She was so chill and small, how could she not slip right in?

The process of adopting her was intense. People considering parenthood should be so carefully and thoroughly vetted.

So our chaotic family life has added a cute complication.

The new dog’s also deaf, but that’s not a big deal since no one else in the house listens to me either.

Really and truly, though, this is IT. We’re maxed out. No more animals. It’s in writing, Husband No. 1, so cut this out and wave it in my face when the next foster dog arrives.