Rain, Rain... Go Away

It's been raining all night and morning.  The street in front of my house is a running creek, full of water.  The backyard is a collection of miniature ponds, and everything in between those ponds is mud.  The mud is six inches deep.  Why my wife wants to go shopping in this kind of weather is beyond me.
     "This is the kind of weather to stay inside and read a good book," I tell her.
     "We're going shopping," she tells me.
     "I can make us both a nice cup of coffee..." I tell her.
     "We're going shopping," she tells me.
     "...and we can cuddle up under some blankets and fool around," I tell her.
     "We're going shopping," she tells me, and she even gives me the stink-eye for emphasis.  Of course, she's just being facetious.  I think.
     I guess we're going shopping.  It's not that I don't like going out in the rain and getting wet, it's that I don't like getting wet when I go out in the rain.  My wife, on the other hand, thinks there's nothing better than shopping on a cold, wet day. 
     So I take the dogs outside to do their business.  They've been couped up inside for a very long time, so all three take some very long pees.  They don't care to get wet while they're doing their business, either, but, like me, they have no choice.
     I bring them back in, and rub them down with a towel my wife had the foresight to give me.  I get them as dry as I can.  They have that wet dog smell to them, but I have a secret weapon:  Bounce.  I rub them down with those little fabric softener sheets, so they don't go smelling up the whole house.  I do this on a regular basis when they're dry, but it really comes in handy when they're wet. 
     "What're you doing?" my Dad asks, he's in the great room watching TV.  He asks me that every time he sees me rubbing down the dogs with Bounce.
     "I'm just getting rid of the stink, Dad," I answer him.
     "What?"
     "I'm just getting rid of the stink."
     "You're getting rid of what?"
     "The stink."
     "The stink?"
     "Yeah, the stink."
     "They sure do," and he's back watching TV.
     "Dad," I try to get his attention again.  "Dad!"
     "What?"
     "Dad, we're going shopping," I tell him.  We're going to several stores and Sam's..."
     "Sam's?"  Oops.  If I mention Sam's, he'll want to go with us.
     "No, not Sam's.  Just several stores.  The dogs have already been taken outside, and they've done their business.  It's wet and muddy outside, so don't let them back out."
     "What?"
     "Don't let the dogs back outside.  It's been raining, and they'll track the mud inside the house.  We'll be back soon."
     "What if they have to go to the bathroom?"
      "No, we've already taken them outside.  They've done their business, and they'll be good until we get back.  So don't let them out."
     "What?"
     "Don't let them out.  It's raining."
     "I know it's raining, I can see that.  It's also cold.  Now, where are you going?"
     "We're going to the library.  After that we're going to Target, and then to the Post Office to mail some packages.  Maybe Sam's, and a few other places."
     "Sam's?"
     "No, not Sam's.  Just a few other places.  So don't let the dogs out."
     "Oh my, oh my.  Lot's of places, lot's of places.  So many places.  Wuuweee, and it's cold, too.  I'm glad I'm staying home.  So, when do I take the dogs out?"
     "No, Dad.  You DON'T take the dogs out.  I've already taken them.  They'll just get muddy, and track the mud back in.  If they scratch at the door DON'T let them out.  It's muddy outside."
     "I know it's muddy outside.  It's raining, of course it's muddy.  WUUWEEE, and it's cold, too."
     "That's right, Dad.  Thanks."
     "So you already let the dogs out..."
     "Yes."
     "...and you don't want me to let them out."
     "That's right, Dad," I tell him.  If you think these conversations with my Dad go on forever, you should try being a part of them.  "We'll be back soon, so don't let the dogs outside."
     "All right, all right, don't worry.  The dogs will be okay.  We'll be fine, we'll be fine.  Now where are you going?"
     "Sa...  uh, just out. Dad.  We'll be back soon."  Man, what's taking my wife so long?  The longer she takes, the longer I have to stay there talking with my Dad.
     Blab, blab, blab...  who, what, where, how?  Finally, my wife's ready.  She comes downstairs, and we leave.
     And we have a very nice time, too.  The rain's not so bad.  Fortunately, there's not a whole lot of drivers on the road, and what few there are, are careful and considerate.  I must have gone to sleep in one city, and woken up in another.  After a very pleasant afternoon, we return home a few hours later.
     I walk into the kitchen carrying two bags of groceries, one in each arm, and I notice right away that something isn't right.  There are muddy paw prints all over the oak and kitchen floors.  Large muddy paw prints.  Small muddy paw prints.  And some muddy paw prints that are just right.  Muddy paw prints...  all over the floors.  I stand there, speechless.
     "Dad!  What happened?" I not-quite yell, putting the two bags on the counter.  I guess I wasn't so speechless, after all.
     My Dad is sitting in the great room, watching TV.  He's snacking on chips or something.  Smack, smack, smack! His mouth keeps making these smacking noises.  I am so not happy.
     "What?" my Dad says.  Smack!
     My wife walks in, and she's just as in shock as I am.
     "Dad!" she says.  "What happened?"
     "The dogs wanted to go outside, so I let them out."
     "Dad," I said, "I told you NOT to let them out."
     "They wanted to go.  It wasn't raining, so I thought it would be all right.
     Why couldn't he have just let them out, and then had the good judgement to keep them out? 
     "Dad, I told you NOT to let them out."
     "They wanted to go."
     I turn to my wife.
     "Don't worry, sweetie," I tell her, gently.  "Go upstairs.  I'll bring everything in, and I'll clean up."
     I expected a smart-ass answer, like "You bet you will!" but she just goes upstairs without a word.  I feel bad for her.  Heck, I feel bad for myself.  I wish I could go upstairs with her.  I wish I could go upstairs, and, when I came back down, the whole thing would have just been a dream.  The floors would be clean, the dogs would be dry, and my Dad...  my Dad would be ...  would be... 
     Instead I start cleaning the floor, mumbling to myself. 
     "Holy smoke," I mumble, only I didn't use the word smoke.  I used a different "s" word. 
     "Smoke, smoke, smoke!" I keep mumbling just loud enough for me to hear, but no one else.  I can hear my Dad from the great room.  He's back to doing what he does best--watching TV--but he's talking to me at the same time.
     Smack, smack, smack!
     "You know, it wasn't raining, and they wanted to go outside.  I didn't even notice the mud on the floor.  Where did that come from?  I didn't even notice it."
     I keep cleaning the floor.  I want to get it done before my wife comes back downstairs.  There's no use for further discussion as to what happened and why.  I'll just blame the dogs and leave it at that.
     Smack, smack, smack!
     "I'm hungry," my Dad says.

  

  

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

Hot Day (Part Four)

My Dad walks every day--EVERY day--rain or shine.
     Today was not only one of the shine days, but it was also one of the hot days.  The very hot days.  I try to pass along this information to him, but if there's one thing I've learned from dealing with my Dad, it's that I can't deal with my Dad.
     "Dad," I tell him, "it's hot outside."
     "No, it's not."
     "Sure it is."
     "No, it's not."
     "Dad, I was just outside.  It's hot."
     "It feels cool to me."
     "It feels cool to you, because we're inside the house.  Outside, it's hot."
     But my Dad isn't really listening to me.  He's trying on the new pair of Nike walking shoes that I've just brought him from Tucson.
     "Yeah," he tells himself, "these feel good.  It's just what I needed."
     He stands up after putting them on, and does a little high-stepping around the island in the kitchen.
     "They fit perfect," he tells me.  "I'm going out for a walk."
     I try to distract my Dad.
     "You know, Dad, my wife will be down in a few minutes.  You don't want to wait for breakfast before you go on your walk?"
     "What?"
     "You don't want to wait for breakfast first?"
     "Are you going to make it for me?"
     "My wife will be down in a few minutes.  She can make us both breakfast."
     I've learned that if I can distract my Dad long enough, he'll forget about going on his walk, and will settle down and watch TV or go take his morning nap.  But there's no distracting him today.
     "Nah," he says.  "I'll go on my walk first."  He's really excited about trying out his new shoes.  He's like a big kid.
     I'm really regretting driving to Tucson and buying him those Nike's.  No good deed goes unpunished, but no good deed also causes you a lot of inconvience, as well.
     So he goes.  Meanwhile, my wife comes downstairs.
     "Are you hungry for breakfast?" she asks.
     I have a very beautiful wife.  I look at her, and she's wearing some cotton pajamas that are a size too big.  The sleeves go past her wrists and halfway down her hand, and the pajama bottoms drag on the ground.  She looks awfully cute.
     "Well...  I am hungry," I tell her.
     She knows I'm not talking about breakfast. 
     "Where's Dad?" she asks, bringing me back to reality.
     "He went out on his walk," I admit.
     "So he can be back at any time?"
     "Yeah," I admit that, too, knowing where this is going.
     "So you let him go out on a walk?"
     "I didn't let him.  He went."
     "But it's hot."
     "He didn't think so."
     "It's very hot."
     "He thought it was cool."
     "Yeah, inside the house it's cool, but outside it's hot."
     I'm starting to get agitated.
     "Sweetheart, you know my Dad.  If there was a way I could have kept him from going out on his walk, then I would have kept him from going out on his walk."
     That's the thing about my dad.  He affects so many aspects of my life.  My wife and I are sniping at each other, not because we're actually irritated at each other, but because our lives are essentially put on hold.  I can't kiss my wife good morning without my Dad sticking his nose between us and asking if his dog has been fed yet.
     I look at it this way:  I have a window of opportunity to do certain things, and that window is closing way too fast for my taste.  By inviting my Dad into my home to live with us, I've limited the things I can do.  I can't hike every day the way I would like, and leave my wife to deal with my Dad all by herself.  He would drive her nuts.  So I hike when I can, and I wait for my Dad to come back from his walks the rest of the time. 
     "Should I start breakfast, or what?"
     "I would guess 'or what?'."
     So we make the best of a bad situation.  I make us two cups of coffee.  She likes to add sugar and cream.  I like mine black.  I grab the morning newspaper, and she picks up a mystery book that she's been dying to read.  We go outside to the front patio, where there's shade and it's still cool.
     I sit down, and single out the Sports Section.  My wife sits down, and opens her book to the first page.
     And that's the exact moment my Dad comes back.
     "Man," he says, wiping his forehead with the baseball cap he was wearing.  "It's hot out there."
     "Did you have a nice walk, Dad?" my wife asks him, trying to be nice.
     He ignores her question completely.
     "Do you have anthing cold to drink?" he asks her.  "Man, it was hot.  That sun was burning."
     My wife gets up and goes to get him something cold to drink.
     "I told you, Dad," I said.
     "What?"
     "I told you it was hot."
     "You told me it was hot?"
     "Yeah."
     "When did you tell me that?"
     "I told you just before you left."
     He ignores what I've just said.  I don't know if he doesn't hear what we say, or if he just ignores the things he doesn't want to acknowledge.
     "I should have had breakfast first," he says, shaking his head, and sitting down with me.  "I could have gone for a walk later, when the sun cooled down."
     He looks at his new shoes, and shakes his head some more.
     "You know, son," he tells me.  "I don't know about these shoes.  They hurt my feet."
   
  

Raising My Father

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

JimDuchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene