So the other day I picked up Boy and his Friend from preschool and brought them to our house to play. Boy has no fear, which is sometimes a bad thing and sometimes a good thing, but Friend is unfortunately afraid of dogs. Now, when you're three and a half, and you are only about three feet tall, it's easy to understand why you would be afraid of dogs, particularly big dogs. Especially since Friend has no dog of his own to interact with. But it always surprises me when Friend, or anyone else, is afraid of Pippin. Pippin is the size of a bedroom slipper. She weighs a whopping six pounds (which the vet has informed us is borderline obese, for her, hee hee. Baby girl weighed eight pounds and some eleven ounces when she was born, so Pippin is the official lightweight in the house.)
So I unlock the door into the house, and I lift Boy and Friend down out of the car, and I go around to Baby Girl's side to get her out. I come around the car and see that Boy has gone inside, but Friend is standing rigid in the middle of the garage.
"What's up?" I ask.
He points at the door into the house, mute and terrified.
I look up and see, standing with all the tiny majesty of an alpha female the size of a shoe, Pippin. She is in the doorway of the garage, nose lifted to sniff the air, tail curled elegantly across her back, and Friend does not dare to take a step closer. I snap my fingers and attempt to banish her, but lo, she does not budge. I carry Baby Girl into the house, stepping over Pippin in the process, with many assurances to Friend that this is just same ol' little Pippin, no threat to small boys or beasts, but neither of them move.
Finally I put down the baby, snatch up my little one-headed Cerberus, and stick her under my arm. Then I start thinking that maybe Friend knows something I don't. Perhaps Pippin is some sort of harbinger of doom. A guardian of the underworld. A being of immense, dark potential.
If this is true, I may want to take the little bow off her collar, because it ruins the whole effect.