Grandma Cooper was filled with wisdom, though sometimes her lessons came wrapped in humor. One memory that always stands out began the day she heard I wanted a dog. She wasn’t wrong—I wanted one desperately. In fact, I even dragged a rock around for about a week because my dad had said that if I could prove myself responsible, he would get me a dog.
But Grandma had her own way of teaching.
She told me to go fetch the biggest potato I could find. When I returned, holding a potato so large it filled both of my hands, I beamed with pride. Grandma looked at it, nodded, and said, “All right then. Your dad was right about the rock. If you could take care of the rock, it showed responsibility. But the rock didn’t quite work out, did it?”
I froze. She knew. She knew that the rock had mysteriously disappeared after my mother found it in the washing machine. For the longest time, I was convinced one of my sisters had sabotaged me, hiding it out of pure sibling rivalry. But no—Grandma had seen the truth.
That day, she looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and said, “We’re going to name your dog. How about Tater?”
I lit up. “Perfect!”
And just like that, my potato became Tater, my practice dog.
Over the next few days, Grandma guided me step by step. She reminded me that Tater would need food, water, and regular walks. Potty training, too—because what’s a dog without that challenge? And of course, walking Tater every day was part of the deal.
At first, I followed her instructions because she prompted me. But by the fourth day, I didn’t need reminding. I had the routine down. I was proud. In my mind, I was already picturing the real dog I’d soon have.
When it was time to leave Grandma’s house, I expected her to tell my dad how responsible I’d been. I thought she’d advocate on my behalf. That’s not quite how it went. Instead, she expected me to keep up the routine once I was home. Somewhere between my pride and my excitement, that lesson slipped right past me.
As you can probably guess, I didn’t get a dog that week.
Years later, Dad finally came home with a Chihuahua tucked inside his coat pocket. We named him Manchester—because if you give a little dog a big, fancy name, it almost makes up for the size. And you know what? All that time spent with Tater paid off. I knew how to feed, water, and walk a dog because of Grandma’s potato lesson.
Eventually, when I had a home of my own, I bought my first real dog—a German Shepherd. Now that, I thought, was a real dog.
Looking back, I see what Grandma was doing. She turned a simple potato into something far more important: a life lesson. She taught me that responsibility isn’t about words or promises—it’s about showing up every day, even for a potato named Tater.
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