Do You Know What's Worse?

My Dad's dog needed a check-up and his shots. My Dad knows it, but he acts like he doesn't understand when I tell him. And then tell him again. And again. 

     "Dad," I'll tell him, "we need to take your dog for his shots."

     "Oh, I'm fine," he'll tell me, and nervously change the channel on the television set.

     "Dad," my wife will say, "why don't we take your dog to get his shots today?"

     "No, thanks," he'll say. "I'm not hungry."

     Before you tell me to leave the poor old guy alone, this is the same poor old guy who studies his monthly bank statements for hours, and then, if he doesn't like what he sees, he'll have us take him to the bank so he can argue with somebody for hours more. I swear, when the bank sees him coming, they probably put the janitor in a business suit, and have him handle all of Dad's questions and complaints.

     "Answer him in Spanish. Maybe he'll leave sooner."

     But he doesn't. My Dad isn't interested in any kind of a mutual exchange of words, he's only interested in talking and having somebody listen. Like when he goes to the doctor's office. When he's done or tired or ready for his nap, he'll finally stop and we'll bring him home.

     So guess who ends up taking his dog to the vet? That's right, my wife. Just kidding, I do. My wife does enough when it comes to putting up with my Dad's shenanigans.

     I take his dog to the vet, have an adult conversation that's not about baseball, and I pay for the dog's shots and check-up besides. Believe me, I checked my wallet, but there was none of my Dad's money inside.

     When we get back, my Dad tells me, "Oh, I see you're back."

     "Yeah," I tell him, "we just got back from the vet's."

     "You just got back from the vet?"

     "Yeah, I took your dog. He's over-weight, but healthy. I had him get all his shots."

     "He had to get his shots?"

     "Yes."

     "Who had to get his shots?"

     "Your dog. Your dog had to get his shots."

     "Your dog had to get his shots?"

     "No, your dog."

     "Your dog?"

     "No, your dog. Your dog had to get his shots."

     "That's what I'm saying, your dog."

     My Dad's eyes are starting to bulge the way they do when he's confused or gearing up for a fight. A vein on his neck is starting to make its presence known. He's ready for a tussle. I thought to myself, was it worth trying to straighten out? Was it worth the aggravation? The high blood pressure? Another dizzy spell?

     "That's right, Dad," I said, making my decision. "That's right."

     I couldn't prove it in a court of law, but I think I saw him giving me a yeah,-buddy,-that's-what-I-thought grin. Maybe it was just gas.

     "That's good," my Dad said, turning his attention back to the baseball game on TV. "That's good."

     I checked my wallet. There was still none of my Dad's money in it.

     I better live long enough to spend some of my inheritance.

     I know, I know. I complain and I complain, but do you know what's worse than your 90-something year-old father moving in with you? Your 70-something year-old mother-in-law moving in.
     Oh, I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about a buddy of mine. I'll call him "Maloney," since that's his name. Maloney and I were in the war together.
     "And which war was that?" my wife once asked me.
     "The big one," I answered.
     "World War Two?" she teased.
     Silly girl. That was my Dad's war. The one I was in was way worse that that one.
     "The war between the sexes," I told her. "I lost."
     Ouch! For the weaker sex, she sure can hit hard.
     Of course I was referencing the time when I was single and Maloney was single and we were both ignorantly happy in our singleness. If I was still single and dating, would I have taken in my Dad to live with me? Did I need a loving wife to gently--and sometimes not-so-gently--nudge me in the right direction? Maybe. Maybe not. Truth is, I really don't know.
     I mean, is homelessness really such a bad thing? Once you get used to eating out of restaurant trash bins, the rest is easy. You can travel. You have no responsibilities. As long as you aren't interested in a little thing called lack-of-hygiene, you can even date. I once saw a homeless couple. They seemed happy.
     "Maybe I can start a blog, like you," Maloney told me.
     "You wouldn't like it," I told him. Who needs the competition?
     I think Maloney got married because I got married. Which is to say that if he lives to be a hundred, he stayed single for the first half of his life, and then, in a moment of weakness, he jumped the broom.
     Myself, I got married young. Then I got divorced young. Then I got married again, reasonably young. But this time I did it right. And it was this blissful second marriage that Maloney, with his horse-blinders firmly on, saw. Or maybe he was looking through beer-goggles. Whatever it was that he was looking through, it didn't let him see all the hard work that marriage is. All he saw was the frosting, not the cake.
     I think he thought to himself, "What am I doing with my life? I've got no wife. I've got no family. My parents think I'm gay."
     Years ago, when he first started making noises about getting married, I told him, "All you need is a dog and a maid. A dog for affection, and a maid to cook and clean for you. That way, you can have sex with the maid, and still date."
     He got married instead.
 
 

Raising My Father

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