“Wennington hasn’t had this much attention since the baby was born,” my 7-year-old niece told me matter of factly. She was right. Our golden retriever, named for backup Chicago Bull center Bill Wennington, became a bench warmer the moment our daughter was born.
Before I go any further, I should clarify that all of Wennington’s needs are being met. He takes hikes with his DoggoneFit pack three times a week, eats like a king, and has free reign of a grassy fenced yard. He also enjoys regular games of fetch at a nearby soccer field. Nevertheless, his days of only childhood are long gone and he knows it. I can see it in his eyes every time the baby lets out a wail.
The first night we came home from the hospital, he greeted her with such gentle tenderness that we thought he was possessed. “Who is this delicate watchdog and what have you done with our big slobbering puppy?” I asked him.
Around 11 p.m. Wennington got restless, whimpering and pacing around the living room. We took turns shushing and trying to settle him down until I finally turned to my husband and asked, “You fed him, right?”
“No, did you feed him?”
We both scrambled to our feet to fill the food bowl. This was the first of many transgressions.
So began the Wennington apology tour. On multiple occasions, we forgot to latch the gate and caught him eating cat food on the next-door neighbor’s porch. It wasn’t so much neglect as it was a swift pivot from the royal treatment he had grown accustomed to in a pre-baby era.
Then, one day, the whole family found ourselves enjoying the summer breeze. I signaled to my husband who was watering the garden to indicate I was stepping inside. Whilst fixing myself a snack, I heard the storm door slam.
“Do you have the baby?” I asked my husband.
His jaw dropped and he spun around to retrace his steps. “I thought you had her …”
We located our girl grinning ear to ear in her bouncer seat while Wennington sat faithfully at her feet with a watchful eye. I never feed him table food, but that night I saved him a boneless chicken thigh for a special treat and gave him a nice long scratch behind the ears. “You’re a good boy,” I told him over and over.
Today, we brought Wennington along to a birthday party at Tree House Brewing Company in Deerfield. He was on his best behavior, making the rounds and letting the kids crawl all over him.
“He really is a good boy,” observed my husband. Wennington gave the baby a big wet lick on her toes and she giggled in my lap. Then, in a feat of pure athleticism, he leaped through the air and snatched a slice of artisan pizza off an innocent bystander’s plate. Bill Wennington would be proud.
Do you have recommendations for baby and dog-friendly destinations? Find me on Instagram at @sarah_connell and let me know.