Discovery

SPOILER ALERT: All seven Harry Potter novels

I am a nanny. During the day, it is just me and the littlest kiddo, who is 15 months. In the afternoons, I get her brother, T, who, despite his lack of Robin Hood knowledge, is a generally good kid. I've gently coaxed him this year into almost enjoying reading, and had the pleasure of introducing him to the (life-changing? spectacular? mind-blowing?) Harry Potter novels.

It is an amazing thing to watch, in him, the same process I went through when I was first discovering the books. He hasn't seen the movies. He doesn't know about Snape killing Dumbledore, about Voldemort coming back, about Umbridge and her detestable faux-sweetness, about the epic battles that make up the last three books. I sincerely hope no one spoils it for him.

He is most of the way through the third book, and is still where we all were, thinking Sirius Black a murderer, not knowing about the Time-Turner or that Lupin is a werewolf, certainly not realizing Scabber's true identity. Voldemort is still, at this point, a bad guy in the distance, his return not even a possibility on the horizon. T is busy coming up with theories, most of the dead wrong, but who's theories weren't dead wrong at this point?

I am loving his shock at each new revelation, his loyalties toward certain characters, and his predictions of what is to come.

Potter for President, that's what.

Dogs

I don't like Dogs.

Actually, that's not true. I like little dogs. Sweet, fluffy, lick-your-face-with-their-tiny-tongues dogs. Those are sweet, and hardly count as dogs. More like canine-esque kitty-kats mixed with a bit of gerbil. Big dogs, on the other hand, make me break out in emotional and mental hives. This is incredibly inconvenient, because I am apparently a dog-whisperer. I have never met a big dog that didn't think I was just the most amazing, wonderful thing it had ever met and proceed to ignore everyone else in the room until I had petted and loved on it.

I work as a nanny in a home with a Pit Bull and a Chocolate Lab that I detest. To say that I hate these dogs is an understatement akin to saying that Hitler was a painter with some anger issues. They are my own personal Marley. They jump, they drool, they steal the baby's toys (and eat them), and they wait until right after I put the baby down to find something offensive in the street that must be immediately barked at. My hatred, which I do all I can to project toward these animals, has absolutely no affect whatsoever on the drooling, obnoxious love they insist upon showing me. I suppose I could find greater meaning in this, something about how dogs love unconditionally, blah, blah, blah.

But I won't. If I did, I would have to admit that she does, in fact, have redeeming features, which, while it may or may not be true, I refuse to do.

I like cats quite a bit, although I wish I could get through a bowl of cereal without a furry face in mine asking "You gonna finish that milk?" To which I sulkily reply "Apparently not"