Perhaps the largest change in me since having a child has been my relationship with risk. Since before she was born we began to make calculations very differently. No risk was acceptable with regards to Robinia’s wellbeing. None whatsoever. When there was even an outside chance of Roby’s being growth restricted we went to a hospital and considered a monumental change to the birth plan, even put a deadline to it, one that never came, thank God.

This morning on their walk, the walk I usually walk but haven’t this week because I stepped on a nail, Scout got into a porcupine. There were about twenty quills in her nose and we had to use pliers to get them out. She struggled and had an awful time, so did we.

Scout’s not a dog made for the country, but she’s done her best. Snout bloodied, she went to hide beneath the ottoman where we brought her a bowl of strawberry ice cream and some peanut butter to recover, the poor thing.

That difficulty behind us, Abby and I went to consider the projects of the day. We were looking at our largely deconstructed basement stairs when we heard Roby scream.

She was crawling after some of Scout’s peanut butter when Scout bit her nose for her trouble. It was quite a shock and neither of us were very alright about it. We did not keep it together. First the suffering of seeing our daughter hurt, then the bitter, acid realization that it meant our decade with Scout had come to an abrupt end.

She’s gone to live with my sister, bless her. She’s the family dog now, and it breaks my heart. Abby and my first baby, too dangerous to be with our child.

It was just about the worst circumstances for all of us. On the tail end of an exhausting long weekend of hard labour, Scout threadbare from what was essentially torture, Roby sneaking up on her...it’s an unlikely situation, but not an impossible one. It took a little more than half a year to crop up.

I cried a lot today, for Scout and for Roby and for Abby and for Archie. But I also thanked God that instead of calling around for a good pediatric surgeon, I was calling my sister because I knew she would love this dog and take good care of her.

It’s the sheer scale of the risk that changes the math. Pascal’s wager levels of importance operate here. It took seven months for Scout to snap at Roby the first time and we were more than lucky that there was only a bead of blood.

I love Scout, and my calculations might’ve come out different if I had to send her to live with strangers. But I don’t have to send her to live with strangers, I get to send her to live with someone I love, someone who loves her.

The happiest Scout has ever been in her life was when Abby was the manager of Maglianero and I was working in the same building. She sat by the cafe and held court for the love and admiration of anyone who walked through there. And that’s where she’s headed again.

Thanks Mia.