Just For Fun

A grandkid just turning two ought to have a truck. A simple truck. A crawl on the floor and make vroom-vroom noises truck.

That was the premise I started with when I went shopping for a birthday present. I didn't have much time, which I didn't expect to be a problem. I would just drive to the nearest discount store, go to the toy department, pick up a truck, and be on my way.

Except that the store didn't seem to have such a thing as a simple, medium-sized plastic truck. There were little metal trucks—too small for a two-year-old. There were soft, squishy trucks—too babyish for a two-year-old. There were miniature monster trucks—too gorily decorated for a two-year-old.

Mostly, though, there were electronic trucks and cars. They roared. They flashed lights. They talked. They ran on remote controls (batteries not included). All of them seemed meant to be watched more than played with—too passive for a two-year-old.

With time running short, I finally grabbed a talking, engine-revving race car. According to the directions on the package, when it was shaken and plopped down on its wheels, it would race across the floor on its own, emitting NASCAR-inspired sound effects. It also looked as if it could be driven by toddler power. I figured it would do.

When the clerk picked the car up to scan it, it started shouting in a screechy automotive voice. "I'm Swifty! (Or Scooter or Speedy or whatever its name was.) The checkered flag is mine! Vroom, vroom!"

Shut into a shopping bag, it subsided while I carried it out to my car. It squawked once when I dropped it onto the back seat. When I started driving, however, it started up again. Every stop, start, and turned corner would set it off. "I'm Swifty! The checkered flag is mine! Vroom, vroom!" By the time I got halfway home, my name was definitely Grumpy.

Finally, I stopped at a drugstore, reached into the back seat, and picked up little Motormouth. Resisting the temptation to hurl it across the parking lot, I set it firmly but gently upright. Silence ensued. This toy was obviously intended to be parked carefully on its wheels on a shelf except when it was being played with, rather than being tossed into a toy box where it would start screeching and revving every time it was jostled. Since no two-year-old I have ever known keeps toys neatly on a shelf, this clearly would not do.

I went into the store, where I found a cheaply made but blessedly simple little plastic wagon filled with blessedly silent plastic blocks. It wasn't a truck, but at least it would allow the birthday boy to pull or push it. Neither would it scare him silly by bursting into full cry every time he touched it.

Loudmouth little Swifty is still parked in the back seat of my car. I need to return it to the store. First, though, I have to figure out how to keep it quiet long enough for them to take it back.

It was the reproachful look on Nora's whiskery little face as she was carried off to temporary exile in the utility room that got my attention. Until then, I hadn't really noticed how often, when dogs charge at me with friendly enthusiasm, their owners make a grab for their collars. People must think I don't like dogs.

Maybe it's my body language. The flinching, possibly. Or my hand reaching out to fend off a canine instead of pet it. Or turning the other cheek away from an inquisitive wet nose. Perhaps people are misinterpreting these subtle clues as dislike.

Actually, I do like dogs. There are two that I meet regularly on walks in my neighborhood. Meadow, a cross between a German Shepherd and a sofa pillow, drags her owner across the street whenever she sees me, so she can lean her head on my knee while I scratch her ears. A Great Pyrenees, whose name I don't know, has irresistible "please pet me" eyes and thick, soft fur that she seems happy to let me use as a hand warmer on chilly days.

Sherlock, female despite her name, is a tireless hiking companion who flops down regularly in snow banks or water puddles to cool off. As a woman who knows about hot flashes, I can sympathize.

Then there is Marley, a Beagle/Dachshund mix whose alert intelligence and ability to do back flips make up for what might be tactfully described as his overly exuberant personality.

So it isn't that I don't like dogs. I just don't like them licking my face, or bouncing uninvited into my lap, or leaving trails of drool across my clean slacks. I recoil from sloppy dog-breath kisses, especially from a wannabe canine BFF to whom I haven't even been introduced.

There's nothing wrong with taking a little more time to get to know one another. I prefer a more old-fashioned approach, based on glances across a crowded room, a little discreet sniffing of hands or pant legs, and other gracious methods of becoming acquainted.

You know—the way cats do.

We've been having our October weather this first week in November, and the mild, sunny days have filled the bike path with walkers and cyclists. (Why, by the way, is someone who rides a bicycle called a cyclist while someone who rides a motorcycle called a biker? The other way around would make more sense.)

Anyway, among the bicycles on the bike path are always a few with those cute little tot-hauling carts hitched behind them. Most of the time they carry kids, though I've seen them with smug little dogs inside instead. Once in a while you'll see a child seat mounted on the back of a bike, but those don't seem to be very popular. I can understand why.

When my daughter was about eight or nine months old, I decided to get one of those seats so I could take her along while I got some exercise. Never mind that I didn't get my first bike till I was 26 and my bike-riding skills were approximately the same as those of an uncoordinated seven-year-old just barely out of training wheels. It still seemed like a good idea at the time.

One beautiful Sunday morning we set out on an expedition: my sister, my six-year-old son, and me, with the baby securely strapped into her seat behind me. We rode through quiet residential streets to the bike path, then pedaled easily along it until it was time to head home. My daughter sat in her seat talking happily to herself. We had a great time.

Everything went smoothly until we were back in the residential neighborhood a few blocks away from our house. I was in front, getting a little tired but still pedaling along, when a man started across the street in front of me. Either he didn't see us, or he assumed, correctly, that we had plenty of space to go around him.

My inner uncoordinated seven-year-old froze. I didn't have time to slow down. I was afraid that if I swerved to miss him, I might tip over. It never occurred to me to shout a warning. Taking the only other available choice, I plowed right into him.

Fortunately, he had better reflexes than I did. He grabbed the handlebars in time to both protect himself and keep the bike from going completely over. The only thing that hit the ground was my left leg.

So there we were, disturbing the peace of a quiet Sunday street. My daughter, still safely strapped in her seat, was screaming in fright. I was crying, mostly because I was afraid she was hurt. Blood was streaming down my leg from a scrape on my knee. And the hapless guy I had just run down was saying, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

I bet he was, too. He probably still flinches if a bicycle gets too close.

My sister rescued the baby and calmed her down. The man dug a first-aid kit out of the glove box in his pickup and stuck a bandage on my knee. We walked the rest of the way home.

My daughter never rode in the bicycle seat again. Every time I tried to put her into it, she started screaming. Evidently she didn't want to be a biker babe.