Where's The Leash?

My Dad walks out of his little father-in-law house at the front of our property wearing the Senior Citizen Summer Outfit. He walks into the kitchen via the door leading to or from the patio that separates our two homes.
     "I'm going for a walk," he lets us know.
     I'm sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying a nice hot cup of coffee. I drink it black. I'm not saying I like it black, I'm saying I drink it black. My brother recently told me that life's too short to drink your coffee black.
     "Add some flavored creamer," he told me. "Live a little."
     While I like the various flavored creamers--Hazelnut is my favorite--what I don't like are the artificial colorings, flavorings, and sweetener they're made from. It's my honest opinion that my generation is such a young-looking generation, especially compared to what Tom Brokaw calls the greatest generation, because of all the preservatives in our foods. When we die we won't even have to be embalmed, we'll just stay well-preserved like that McDonald's hamburger that never decomposes. Stick us in a cardboard box, and send us on our way with an order of fries and a diet coke.
     But I digress...
     My Dad walks in, and I take a quick sip of my coffee to hide my smile. He's wearing plaid shorts, black wool socks up above his knee, white shoes, a wrinkled t-shirt, and his grey sweater that I like to call "his girlfriend."
     First off, I tell my wife to put me out of my misery if I ever start wearing black socks with shorts. Secondly, my wife gets angry in her own subtle way when my Dad wears his old, wrinkled t-shirts. She gets quietly angry because she always makes sure that he has new t-shirts and that his new t-shirts are ironed.
     My Dad likes what he lies, however, and what he seems to like the most are the things that annoy us.
     "Where's my dog's leash?" he asks, but it's more of an accusation than a question.
     Where's his leash? I look at my grandson, who I'm taking care of, and my grandson looks at me. He's only three years-old, but I can see he's thinking what I'm thinking: Why would I know where YOUR dog's leash is at? I never walk him. And then I'm pretty sure he thought: Lito, take me to the Mojave Desert with you. I can help you with that BUM arm.
     Yes, you can help me with my bum arm.
 
 

Raising My Father

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