I was driving my daughter to school because she had missed the bus. She was chattering about the neighbor kids and I was vaguely listening as I obeyed all the traffic laws. *don't snicker*
“He says they are pimple dogs.”
“Dave and me were—“
“Did you say pimple dogs?” I enunciated very carefully.
“Do you mean little fuzzy dogs that bark a lot?” My husband calls them footballs so why couldn’t my daughter call them pimples?
“No, like Superman. You know, pimple dogs.” She has this way of explaining things when she knows something I don’t know. Carefully, confident that with patience and time I'll finally catch up.
Superman is Dave’s dog, a sweet, dopey puppy the size of my car. I thought about it for a moment, looked in the review mirror in time to see her give me the raised eyebrows. “Pit bull?” I said it again, emphasizing the t and that it was two words.
“Yeah, pit bull. Superman is a pit bull.”
Yes, yes he is.