MISADVENTURES IN CHILD-PROOFING

Because we have a toddler who is fully mobile and can get into trouble quicker than you can say Jiminy Cricket, I was tasked with the unenviable chore of child-proofing our house. Now, there is a man who would take on this mission with a firm resolve, a steady hand, and equilibrium akin to Tom Brady standing tall in a collapsing pocket with his gaze planted resolutely downfield.
Alas, I am not that man.
I knew what I was in for. And it would not be pretty. It would require a lot of bending over (in a position designed to throw out my dodgy back), lots of sweating, and the use of sharp tools in tight places. I had baby-proofed two homes in my long ago past, and the recollection of those scenes transferred an faint sense of dread to the present job.
With cordless screwdriver in hand I set out to affix child proof devices to 38 cabinets and drawers. I was wearing knee pads, reading glasses (because I can’t see anything within 3 feet of my face), and a disquieting certainty that before this day was through I would desperately crave a drink.
So, you can see, I already had the right attitude.
I began in the kitchen and by the third drawer I knew I was in trouble, for this drawer, a precursor of many others, would not come out of its slot. Don’t ask me why, there are some things I am not meant to understand. Like women, self-destructive compulsions, how to throw a slider, the allure of rap music, and, now, drawers that refuse to be fully drawn.
I was bent over one such drawer and my gimpy back was twitching in a most alarming way, and the sweat was rolling down my forehead and smearing my reading glasses so I couldn’t see what I was doing and the screwdriver was slipping off the screw and gouging into my finger nail where I held the screw in place and I was beginning to weep in ineffectual anger and frustration when the only being who understands me wandered into the kitchen and sat down on the floor by the oven to watch the goings-on.
Kebu, the regal Akita, gazed at the fomenting disaster with her dark brown eyes, her noble head perched like a crown on the thick ruff of her neck. She blew heavily through her nose and then let out a long sigh that said she had seen all this before.
I sat down on the hardwood floor and looked at her. “Kebu,” I said, “we are well and truly screwed now. I’ve got about a million of these goddamned drawers to baby-proof and my back is on the verge of going out at any moment, I just smashed a sharp implement made of forged steel through my finger tip and I’m getting cranky and weepy.”
Kebu cocked her head at me, her sharp black ears pricked permanently skyward, while I sucked the blood from my finger like a baby child sucking a lollipop.
One of the things I like best about you, said my dog, is your baking. And I particularly like your biscotti. It appears you could use a cookie about right now.
This sounded like good advice so I got a piece of my anise-flavored biscotti out of the cookie jar and I shared it with the dog.
You’ve been going at it real hard, Kebu said. You deserve a nice break. Why don’t you have a cuppa?
Another bright idea. So, I made a cup of tea and sat back down on the floor. I was getting used to this floor, it was making me feel almost grounded.
You know what goes great with a cuppa? asked the dog.
“A biscotti?’ I guessed.
She nodded her big head.
This time I brought the cookie jar down to our level; all this standing and sitting was wearing me out. A working man needs to conserve his energy for the task at hand.
We split another piece of hard biscotti, the dog taking her pieces gently from my hand as she had been taught. I put a piece between my teeth and asked her for a kiss and she softly nibbled the cookie from my mouth, her chin whiskers tickling my lips. It made me laugh out loud. The sun finally broke through the gloomy Sonoma County sky and I didn’t feel quite as suicidal.
The only thing better than a piece of biscotti? Kebu said.
“Is two pieces of biscotti!” I grabbed a pair from the jar and we ate them in happy silence. I dipped my cookie into my tea, which softens it and seems to really bring out the taste of the anise seed. Kebu crunched her pieces between her back teeth, her bone-crushing jaws moving with terrible efficiency.
She licked her mouth with her long pink tongue and settled in to stare at the cookie jar.
“You missed a bit,” I told her and tapped the floor. She bent over and licked up the crumbs. You never have to vacuum the kitchen when Kebu’s around.
“I think I can get back to this hellish undertaking now,” I said.
That’s the spirit, said the Akita. She moved to the comfort of the rug by the couch, whence she could keep her eye on the yard and my progress in the kitchen.
“Ever vigilant, aren’t you?” I said to her.
You never know when a squirrel or a cat is going invade our territory and need to be barked at, she informed me and settled down, her white paws and forelegs curled under her thick chest and head. She was a study of shifting grays, from off-white to coal black, and I imagined how her ancestors blended into the mountain snow while hunting marmots.
I’m here for you if you need another biscotti break, she said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The taste of Earl Grey tea and anise in my mouth, I put a Band-Aid on my bleeding finger and went back to work.