In a surprising about-face, just prior to the pandemic, I looked at Ryan while we sat on our not-yet dog-demolished couch, and I said, “We’re really going to have to get him a dog, aren’t we?”

The him was Oli who had been campaigning for a puppy via persuasive letters for some time while I smiled at him completely unfazed by his adorable rhetoric, but then out of the blue — call it mom intuition, call it Holy Spirit nudging about the ordinary in life — I decided it was time: our boys did, in fact, need a dog.

Ryan was shocked that it was possible to ever change my mind, and then he scoured the internet to find us a puppy. We left the kiddos with the grandparents on some trumped up story, and we went to meet the last two puppies of a Vizsla litter. One was a wild-eyed, frantic girl; one was a sleepy, shy boy. And that day we did what I had previously thought unthinkable — we bought a puppy. Obviously, the sleepy, shy boy.

We had the breeder keep him until he was 10 weeks, so we could time his arrival closer to Oli’s birthday, and more importantly, at a time when Ryan wouldn’t be traveling, at least for a brief stint. (I’ve solo parented enough to know my limits, and there’s no way a new puppy was going to be on my to-do list during a week like that.) When Ryan picked up the puppy and we surprised the boys, it was love, and joy, and shock all around.

Exactly one day later, the world shut down for the pandemic: a pretty perfect time for a puppy.

Whenever I scratch Rangers ears or snuggle him on the couch or tell him he’s a good boy, Ryan and the boys laugh and say, “And she said she’d never own a dog.”

He’s been lovely and hard and funny and the perfect thing to get us through odd and tiring years, and sure enough, I’ve been so glad I didn’t ignore that little nudge that told me to do something I thought I’d regret.

And while all the sweet snuggles and nice walks and laughter from the kids have made me love Ranger, in the last 24 hours he’s really stolen my heart.

---

Reoccurring stints as a solo parent

Over 8 years ago, I was a solo parent for two straight weeks while Ryan went to Alaska on a dream trip. For work. (Insert my sigh here.) We had two boys under two. I was incredibly sick in ways I couldn’t yet describe, and so was Bronson. No one ever slept enough, and even a full pot of coffee everyday didn’t really pull me through. I wrote this post back then, and to say I was frazzled as those two weeks were coming to an end is an immense understatement.

8 years later, parenting is a different ball game, so I’d like to add some new rules for being a solo parent:

• If your husband has to go to a convention in Florida for 8 days, he’ll get COVID.
• If he gets COVID, he’ll extend his trip some extra days.
• If he extends his trip some extra days, bats will try to move into your house. (Read it again. That’s really what I said.)
• If bats try to move into your house, you’ll become a blubbering fool who has officially met her breaking point.

I don’t do bats. Let me tell you why.

A few years ago, Ryan had just boarded a flight for the same July convention in Florida. While he picked out his movie for the flight, I, at home, started closing the living room blinds. A bat flew out.

I was instantly sweating as much as a marathon runner, and began texting Ryan frantically while I hid under a blanket. The boys were in bed with doors closed, and now the bat circled my head as my sanity circled the drain. Neighbors came over and we scoured the house for hours. The bat was hidden. It was past 10 o’clock at night. I let them go home.

Three times the bat appeared to inflict it’s torture, and each time my panicked state prevented me from netting my nemesis. At last I chased it out the sliding door well past midnight. I did not sleep for months, as I would hear things in the walls and wonder if it was coming for me again.

This is not the only time bats and I have cohabitated. They have been my unwelcome guest too many times for me to bear, but get this: only when Ryan is away. It’s like they think I’m lonely, or they’re terrorists and they think their previous pestilence is paling in my memory.

So low and behold a few days ago as I’m on this COVID-lengthened solo parent stint, I’m in the kitchen putting away dishes when I notice a small brown creature at the top of the screen outside my window. I had already closed the window, so it was now trapped inside the screen, but outside my window. Of course, I thought. Right on cue. I’m alone. They’ve got me.

I needed to open the screen for it to be able to leave, but to open the screen I needed to open the window. This was impossible. Because it’s a bat.

A neighbor came over and didn’t seem nearly has frantic and panicked as me, and he managed to calmly open the window and pop my screen out. When he tried to nudge the bat to get it to fly away, it hissed and showed it’s fangs. It was ferocious. So we let it fly away on its own bat-flying time.

Though the heat has been unbearable the last few weeks, this instance reminded me why all my windows are shut converting the house to a sweat lodge. Despite the close encounter, I was still sleeping well at night. Was being the key word.

Today at 3:30 AM, I awoke to Ranger chasing the ceiling fan in my room. He does this sometimes. It’s genuinely hilarious and AFV worthy, but at 3:30 AM, it was only worthy of my cursing and muttering. I found a boy in my bed, so I carried him back to his bed, which is no small feet these days with them getting so large and all.

At this point, I pushed Ranger’s head back into his bed and told him to go to sleep, but he wouldn’t have it. As I finally started to wake up, I realized he was fixated on something under the night table right next to my head. He had not being chasing the fan after all. I went cold and clammy. It had come for me again.

I mustered courage and shined my book light under the table. Sure enough: a bat. I tried to get Ranger away from it, and ran down to the garage to grab a fish net. I plopped it on top of the bat, dragged Ranger out of the room, and shut the door.

I promptly called Ryan to cry about how the bats keep coming for me. I tried a friend, too, who wisely had her phone on mute.

Ranger laid down outside my bedroom, but came to the couch when I called. We looked at each other with wide knowing eyes. I nodded. I saw it too, Ranger. I saw it too.

He wanted to go investigate, but instead he was my comfort on the couch while I waited for a more reasonable hour to call for help. I did Wordle and the Mini. (I’m pretty bad at both at 4 a.m.) Oli was up at 4:30 to join our vigil, and Bronson joined just before 5:30 when I called in the big guns — my dad.

All morning Ranger tried to converge on the bat, but I wouldn’t let him. He knows how to open my door, and the only reason I wasn’t in full panic was that the bat was contained in one room. Even if it was my room, it was not the room that I was sitting in. This is a great comfort.

When my dad arrived, I sent everyone else outside. We crept into the room. Alas, the bat had escaped my net. Dread. Now where was it? We looked. Well, I mostly lurked, and my dad looked. We were not finding the creature. What now?

---

Now we’re back to how it all started.

Why’d we get a Vizsla puppy? He checked all the boxes. Family dog. Check. Hunting dog. Check. Non-shedding. Check. So we wrote a check and got ourselves a Ranger.

Mostly, he costs us money and repays us by demanding our attention. I had never really cared about the above mentioned middle box, but today that feature earned his keep.

Dad told me to let him into the room, so I did. And despite being really jazzed about Papa being over, he went into full hunting mode when we told him to find the “squirrel”. He caught the scent, and found the bat in only a few seconds. It hissed at him, and my dad boxed the bat, removing it from my room. What a relief!

Lesson: if you solo parent and become a blubbering fool who has officially met your breaking point because of a bat next to your head, your dog and dad will tag team to save you from your terror.

Sometimes even if you solo parent, you’re not really doing it alone. Thankfully.