Three years ago, I predicted it was only a matter of time before I would lose the Great Pet Debate in my household.
The kids yearned for a dog like a puppy covets shoes to chew.
Daddy wanted no more on his plate with a third child on the way.
Tie-breaking-voter Mommy sided with me in the daily battle, as she had for years.
Like the townsfolk in the "Lord of the Rings" movies, we valiantly defended our townhouse castle against the kids' relentless campaign.
"You're not old enough yet for a dog," I said, closing the drawbridge.
Darnit if Wyatt and Olivia didn't go and get older.
So my wife and I used every weapon in our arsenal.
We brought goldfish home from carnivals for the kids, hermit crabs from the beach, even two tiny frogs that swim around in their little habitat container and never complain a bit.
But none of those pets was furry and lovable, the kids pointed out a million times during their siege.
I eventually retreated to my keep and fired another arrow:
"When you can keep your rooms clean, you'll be responsible enough to care for a pet."
Yeah, like that would ever happen.
A year ago, the kids launched an all-out assault, shooting my wife and I with more stares from their sad puppy-dog eyes than ever before. (Middle-earth's thunderous oliphaunts, which are 50-foot-high elephant-like creatures, attack trolls and flying dragons can't unleash more power.)
I succumbed and waved a white flag.
"When Riley gets out of diapers, we'll think about it."
Robinson Castle, which had withstood Great Pet Debate attacks for nearly a decade, suddenly had a breach.
My children stormed the keep and last month claimed their loot.
My wife and I looked at a litter of eight Labrador puppies. She held the smallest black furball and stared at his eyes like I gaze at a fresh roast beef sandwich on an empty stomach.
When we surprised the kids with the pup for Christmas, tears welled in my 10-year-old son Wyatt's eyes.
"Can we keep him? Can we keep him?" 2-year-old Riley excitedly yelled.
The first few weeks, Boomer committed many offenses worthy of him being sent to the dungeon.
We would turn around, and he'd dart upstairs to do his dastardly deed.
"Get the Spot Shot!" we'd yell, scrambling after him.
He snuck into my closet and chewed off the back of my shoe. Riley's boot saw the same fate.
Boomer also destroyed his bed, Olivia's coat and a leash.
He barked in the middle of the night to wake us for an outside potty trip.
But Boomer discovered the ways of the kingdom (before Riley, actually), and we all learned how to take care of the new member of our pack.
Now I admit I'm loving my four-legged baby.
My wife works evenings and leaves Boomer in his crate for two hours before I get home from my job in the afternoon.
Riley unhooks his little gate and Boomer beelines toward me, jumping to hug me while wagging his tail so violently that he often falls over himself.
The other day, I had to put Riley down for a nap, accomplished quickest by lying down with her for a few minutes.
Boomer yelped and whimpered for attention from where he was tied in the living room.
I went back and forth between my two babies several times before finally letting Riley skip her nap.
Later, after the kids went to bed for the night, I coaxed Boomer onto my lap before my wife could scarf him up for herself.
No better stress killer.
