Yesterday, I found my eight-year-old son barricaded in his bedroom closet, holding his dog’s mouth shut, sobbing that the police were coming to execute his best friend.
It wasn’t a game. It was the rawest, most heartbreaking panic I have ever witnessed as a mother.
To understand why my son, Leo, was building a fortress out of laundry baskets and pillows to hide a seventy-pound dog, you have to meet Barnaby.
Barnaby is a rescue. He’s what the vet calls a “Boxer-something-mix.” He has one ear that stands up, one that flops over, an underbite that makes him look permanently confused, and a tail that acts like a whip. He looks intimidating to strangers, I guess. But to us, he’s just a giant, clumsy marshmallow who is afraid of thunder, the vacuum cleaner, and butterflies.
