Paid subscriber-only post: The life-changing magic of having a bad kid
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I took Desi, age 7, to his first ever swim lesson last night. I watched the light go out of the eyes of the exuberant, young instructor as she tried to handle him. It was a delight.
When I was growing up, my parents had a book in regular rotation on our coffee table called “No Bad Dogs.” This was a dog training book that claimed “there are no bad dogs, only inexperienced owners.” We had this book because our family dog, named Lisa (?), was a bad dog. She purposely shit indoors in the winter to avoid cold temps on her delicate paws, she barked lustily at all visitors and anyone who raised their voice above ASMR levels, and nipped at people indiscriminately. But she only weighed 9 lbs so none of this was life or death. It was just annoying, and occasionally gross. We’d go in phases of getting fed up with her nonsense and trying to train her. Then we’d give up. She died at age 13, rotten to the very end. RIP Lisa.