14 years ago, my family got a dog named Fred-- a rather exuberant puppy with an affection for people and for pizza. A little unsure about whether we had the wherewithal to actually train him (we didn't) or were quite ready for his effect on our lives (we weren't) we set a tentative hearing date of a year. If he wasn't working out, he'd be dispatched to live a happy life on a farm in Kansas or Arkansas someplace with friends and space.

As the date of review approached, we realized he really needed an extra year. A negative answer was basically unacceptable, but a positive answer was not guaranteed if we actually confronted the question. Every year the same thing happened, and every year his "one-year review" was extended to give him extra time to earn his tenure. Today, at the end of a life as good as a dog can live, Fred died.

My girlfriend asked me if my family was planning to get another dog. I pointed out that we hadn't really decided to keep the first one. "But you loved him!" she pointed out. "That was precisely the problem," I said.