RaisingDad

Today, I bathed my dogs.      Well, only one of the dogs is mine. The big one. The one I don't get embarrassed taking for a walk. The little yappy one belongs to my Dad. I feed him, wash him, take him to the vet, pay for his shots... but it's my Dad's.      When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, I know I can count on my dog to protect and defend me. My Dad's dog? The only thing I can count on him doing is giving away my hiding place with his incessant barking. Anyway...      I tell my father, "Dad, the dogs are wet. Don't let them in the house."      My father says, "What?"      I tell him, "I just washed the dogs. Don't let them in the house."      "Oh," he tells me back, "you washed the dogs? Where are they? I don't see them."      "They're outside, Dad. Don't let them in. They're still wet."   ...

My Dad hasn't been his typical self since we got back from the family reunion. He sniffles, he snots, he clears out a lot of phlegm from his throat with a lot of fanfare.      It doesn't do much for my appetite.      Under the best of circumstances, I don't sit at the table to eat with him anymore and I haven't for several years. I've moved to the kitchen counter, that's where I now sit and eat. It started a while back when my Dad started sneezing and blowing his nose at the table, using the same dirty handkerchief I think he's had since he was stationed in the Philippines during World War Two, where it was so crusty and hard it saved his life by stopping a bullet shot from the gun of a Japanese soldier. I'm sure he must get new ones and throw the old ones in the hamper or the trash, but the thing is... I never see him do that.      Now, it's gotten worse. Sometimes I even have to eat up stairs. It...

My father wakes up early to go on his walks every morning.      Sometimes he wakes up VERY early, so it was a surprise that he was sleeping in late THIS morning. Well, not really. He's tired from our recent trip across country to his family reunion and he hasn't quite recovered yet.      Myself, I was taking advantage of his absence by reading the morning newspaper and enjoying a nice hot cup of the gourmet coffee my wife buys for me. I know she buys it for me, because my father prefers instant coffee. The cheapest brand.      When I look at my father drinking his fake coffee, I sniff my nose in a let-them-eat-cake kind of way and think to myself, "Man, how can he drink that stuff?"      My Dad, meanwhile, probably looks my way and thinks the same thing.      I'm done with the paper and working on my second cup of coffee when my father walks in. He's holding ...

After my Dad went off to search for the Lost Ark of the Covenant at his family reunion--and, unlike Indiana Jones, got lost--my wife thought it would be a good idea to buy him a Splash unit.      When I say she thought it would be a good idea, what I mean is I made the mistake of going for a long hike, and, while I was gone, that gave her enough time to go out and buy one without my permission. A Splash unit, I mean.      What's that? you ask.      Well, it's an expensive little doo-dad with an emergency button that, when pressed, is answered by highly trained emergency certified personnel who all probably make minimum wage. When you advertise that your personnel is highly trained that usually means they're poorly paid.      When the button is pressed, whoever answers has a list of phone numbers they're supposed t...