A is for Advent: A Three-Year-Old's Perspective

C is for Chloe

There are children who love dogs too much to allow space for caution. Then there are children who fear the very presence of dogs, as harbingers of death.

Timmy leaves no doubt of his thoughts on the subject when he finds himself being stared at by a Maltese/Poodle cross. Fluffy and white. Pure as the driven angel of death. Mum's friend tells him the dog's name is Chloe, and that she's just trying to say hello, but Timmy doesn't find an introduction comforting. Clearly, this dog is only biding her time before leaping at him to rip off his face.

He doesn't need rational reasoning to support this notion. His imagination does the job just fine, thank you very much. The fact that Chloe stands in quiet benign cooperation only feeds his building apprehension.

Chloe moves fast and suddenly. She may have blinked, which is practically the same thing as drawing a sword, Timmy thinks. It's reason enough for him to holler. He starts crying and walks erratically backwards, deeper into the living room.

Mum's friend has put up their Christmas tree already, and his blind reversal steers him into its branches. A shiny blue bauble detaches and rolls across the floor in front of him. And in front of Chloe.

Timmy's breath catches in his throat. Nothing good could come of this. He could be in trouble for messing up someone else's Christmas tree. The shiny enticement of the bauble could lure Chloe into an excited Timmy-bound sprint. Maybe both. And with the grownups insisting that the fluffy bundle is benign, he feels helpless. There will be no rescue from them.

"Just tell her to go away," says Mum's friend. "Say, 'Go outside, Chloe.'" 

Timmy doubts the potency of such a defence against the Moodle-dragon, but he'll try anything. "GO AWAY CHLOE!" he screams.

Chloe looks startled. Startled into stillness. Startled into not going away at all. She does, however, jerk her head quizzically.

Timmy screams. There are no words in this one.

"Outside, Chloe!" says Mum's friend, and Chloe goes. 

When the tide of panic recedes, Timmy sees that Mum has returned the bauble to the tree. Nothing came of that one, then. Timmy knows he should feel relieved, to both the dog and bauble scenario, but he just feels tense and tired. He wants to go home.

When Mum finally herds Timmy toward the car, he is watching for the ominous Moodle to emerge with a carnivorous appetite for three-year-old boys. When he sees her sitting by the front gate, he finds Mum's legs are no longer adequate protection, and when Chloe stands up he races for the back door of the car.

Once he is inside the car and the door is securely closed, Chloe transforms from a vicious vessel of destruction to a cotton ball with a tail.

"Go away, Chloe!" Timmy says with confident authority. "You just be outside!"

Chloe contemplates him through the window. She sits.

Not much power fits into a three-year-old, and the power of Moodle dragon taming is intoxicating. Timmy is brimming with excitement. He thinks he loves this feeling.

"I love the Chloe dog, Mummy!" he says, and in the rear view mirror he sees Mum look at him in surprise. 

"You're mad," she says. Timmy doesn't know what she means, but she's smiling too, so it must be something nice.

"Yeah," he says, and in his mind, he sees Chloe doing whatever he tells her.

And Chloe says hello.