the bane of voldemort
It's not every day a parent can say, "My child will soon be attending classes with the renowned Harry Potter," but such distinction is apparently ours. With nary a murmur from the Ministry of Magic, a whisper from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Sorting Hat appeared in our home, hovering over the head of our magical Moonbug. It muttered and mused as it strived for the most fitting house placement; Maisie certainly has the intelligence for Ravenclaw, the loyalty for Hufflepuff, and courage--yes, there's plenty of courage there too.
The hat landed before her, its brim crinkling loudly with anticipation. Maisie wriggled her nose inside, reaching, grasping for her destiny. Whichever house crest she freed first would determine the course of her academic future. And what emerged from that timeworn topper, that conical cap of ancient wisdom? Why, Gryffindor!
Maisie loves interactive playthings, the kind that invite her to burrow and sniff and, from deep within their pliable walls, excavate additional toys...over and over again. The Sorting Hat did not disappoint. She pulled out Gryffindor, then Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and--only when there was nothing else left--Slytherin, a house crest whose neglect could be chalked up to coincidence or a very telling sign of our dog's character. Each time we stuffed the plush pieces back into the hat, no matter the order, it was always Slytherin she extracted last, if ever. Despite the potential greatness of Professor Snape's young charges, the house itself, even in toy form, seems to be burdened with an eerily dark aura.
This toy was Maisie's big gift from Santa this Christmas but by no means her only one. She had two other toys to open as well, along with some maple-glazed ham treats that conjured quantities of drool one might only expect from the kind of fine, novelty products found at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. To send our pup off to boarding school--magical, muggle, or pupple--would never happen, not in the real world. We love her too much to ever be separated, but what a nemesis she would make to He Who Shall Not Be Named. Forget years of training and taunting and rancorous rivalries. One sonorous shepherd bark, one wolfish growl, and Voldemort would be wetting his robe and running the other way. Maisie may be sweeter than a Hufflepuff distributing free boxes of chocolate frogs, but the Dark Lord, I'm willing to bet, isn't a dog person. The fictional fiend doesn't know that our girl's ferocity is nothing more than an expertly crafted illusion.
Thanks to Serafima Lazarenko for use of the Platform 9 3/4 photograph.