JackMan adores Fay--it's a mutual admiration society--but he doesn't like it when I leave the house and ask him to babysit her. I know she's safe with Jack, because my son is like Gladys Kravitz, Aunt Bea, and Richie Cunningham rolled into one--a nosey worrier with a guilt complex the size of Blueberry Hill. He's so much so, in fact, that watching Fay wears him out and he usually naps for two or three hours upon my return.
Yesterday, I was only gone for about 40 minutes, jogging in the neighborhood. When I got back, he handed the puppy over and dragged me to the desk where he'd assembled a small collection of random tiny objects--a gemstone, a couple of pebbles, a small plastic tube of unknown origin, a scrap of plastic wrap, and a hang-tag whatchamajig: "These," he said, "are all the things I had to pry out of her mouth while you were gone."
Then he kicked his shoes off, went into his room, and shut the door.