Monday, October 27, 2014

My Dad, He Knows

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."
     "Are they wet?"
     Twenty minutes later he finally understands: No dogs in the house.
      At twenty-one minutes, I see his dog in the house.
     He's still wet.
      I don't bother saying anything. I don't bother asking anything. What good would it do me? How did the dog get in the house? He must have let himself in.
     Yeah, I'll go with that.
     My Dad's dog runs up to me happily wagging his tail. He wants a snack, or maybe a pat on the head. What I want to give him concerns my foot and his ass, but... it's not his fault, so I don't. I look at my Dad. There's not a court in the world that would convict me. I look back at the dog. Hmm, a potential  witness. A WET potential witness.
     (Do you know why the Mafia doesn't like Jehova Witnesses? Because they don't like any witnesses.)
     "Oh," my dad says when he sees me, "he wanted to come in."
     I don't know why he feels the need to explain anything to me. If he knew he was doing something he shouldn't have been doing, he shouldn't have done it. What really bugs me is he does nothing for his dog. Under normal circumstances, he would have let his dog stay outside. What normal circumstances? you ask. When the dog's dry. Or hungry. Or sick. Or any other time besides that.
     My Dad looks at me like he just did something he should receive a Scooby Snack for. He waits for me to give him a verbal pat on the back and the Nobel Peace Prize for Letting the Dog Into the House.
     "The dog's wet, Dad," I tell him.
     "I knew that," he says.
 
 
Raising My Father
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Monday, October 20, 2014

Is It True? (Part Nine)

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's tough to keep a healthy appetite when someone in the same room is sneezing, blowing their nose, and now coughing. Coughing and choking and spitting out whatever he can into that dirty handkerchief.
     I'm even losing weight from this loss of appetite. Now that I think about it, however, it sounds like a potential business opportunity. If a morbidly obese person wants to lose weight, say like Oprah or Rosie O'Donnell, they can hire my guaranteed weight-loss company. I'll just send my Dad over and he'll ruin their appetite with his loud noises and excretions. You can't gain weight from food you don't eat.  I kid, of course, but it could work. Unfortunately, at my father's age, there are probably laws against that sort of thing, but to get back to my main point...
     I feel sorry for my Dad, but feeling sorry doesn't help my loss of appetite.
     My wife, bless her heart, understands.
     And the shenanigans from above his neck aren't the only disgusting things we have to contend with. Just this morning I was out in the yard drinking a hot cup of coffee and watering my yard. Yes, we have sprinklers on timers, but I enjoy watering the plants, drinking a hot cup of coffee, and breathing in the morning's fresh air. In other words, I water the yard because I want to, not because I have to. Plus, it's relaxing.
     I was making my way close to my father's little in-law house in the front part of my property, when, all of a sudden, I inhaled the most disturbing, most pungent, most odorous smell imaginable. It must be what the people on The Walking Dead smell like, only deader and walkinger. It was a combination of decaying, gangrenous, burnt bodies mixed with sewer gases, skunk juice and stagnant water, topped off with vomit, diarrhea, and my brother-in-law's feet, which he swears he got from having served in Viet Nam.
     "Damn that Nixon!"
     It was all that and more.
     It dazed me for a second, but I kept my balance.
     I asked myself, "Am I dead? Did I just die and go to Hell?"
     I checked the area for any zombies or leftover poops from my intestinally-impaired dog. I checked the bottom of my shoes and then I checked them again. I looked around to see if my ex-wife and her relatives were visiting. But I found nothing...
     ...until I noticed that the window to my father's bathroom was slightly open. I couldn't help but notice all the foliage around it had fainted. I thought to myself, "Is he dead?" But, even if he was, he couldn't have decomposed that quick.
     Testing my conclusion, I walked away from my dad's open window, back toward the main house. The smell grew fainter the further away I walked. Then I cautiously moved back toward the open window, and--like a smelly punch to my olfactory senses--the stench hit me again.
     In my delirium, I could swear I heard Howard Cosell yelling, "And he's down! He's down! Look at that little monkey run!"
     I must have been out for the count, until--like Rocky--I got to my feet before the referee could reach 10. I wobbled away, still hearing Cosell yelling.
     "Manos de piedra," he was saying. Hands of rock. "No mas! No mas!"
     It was the worse smell ever.
     There have been times when my wife and I have noticed my father fanning his bathroom with the door after he's done seeing a man about a horse. It's almost funny. He'll stand as far away as he can, extend his arm forward as far as he can, and fan the door back and forth, holding it by the knob. He'll do it for ten or fifteen minutes. Why he doesn't just leave his little house until the CDC can send in a Haz-Mat team, who knows?
     What does this tell you? It tells me he can't even stand the smell of his own bodily functions.
     Is this true? I can hear you ask. Can the stench of his father's bowel movements actually kill plants and cause time to warp?
     Yes, my friend, it's true.
     As true as the stories in your Bible.
 
 
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Monday, October 13, 2014

THIS Button? (Part Eight)

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 his little credit card-sized Splash unit in his hand. He takes out his handkerchief and blows out quite a bit of snot that he had apparently been saving just for me. There's even more than usual.
     As usual, he's complaining.
     "I don't know why I have to carry this thing," he tells me, looking at the little doo-hickey. He puts his well-used handkerchief back into his front pocket.
     If he's expecting an answer from me, well, I'm tired too.
     "I don't even know how to use it," he continues.
     We've only explained to him TEN times how to use it. It's easy. No, really. Easy. You press the one button it has and help is on the way. It's ONE button. All you have to do is PRESS it. Somehow this seems beyond him.
     My wife walks in right then. She must have a sixth sense when it comes to my father. She always seems to know when he hungry. And she feeds him accordingly. The guy eats more than ME.
     "I only go on short walks," he tells her, recognizing a more sympathetic ear when he sees one.
     Unfortunately for him, he doesn't get it.
     "You have to take it with you, Dad," she says.
     "No, I don't," my Dad says back.
     "Yes, you do."
     "No, I don't."
     "Yes, you DO," she says, emphasizing the "do." It's like arguing with a three-year-old. "Even your son," she continues, nodding her head at me, "is going to get one for his hikes in case he gets lost."
     Lost? I've never been lost a day in my life. She must be listening to my brother-in-law.
     My Dad looks at me.
     "YOU got lost?" he tells me, with a big smile on his face. There's nothing more funny than to my Dad than someone else's misfortune. Even if that misfortune isn't true.
     "ME?" I said.
     "I didn't say he GOT lost," my wife breaks in. "I'm saying IF he gets lost."
     "When did he get lost?" me Dad asks, turning his attention back to my wife. She's always good for the latest scoop.
     "No, Dad. IF he gets lost. IF he gets lost."
     "Oh," my Dad says finally, "if he gets lost."
     "Yes," she says, "if he gets lost."
     My Dad thinks about this a bit. And then...
     "What does this have to do with me?"
     "Well..." she says, slowly. "That means you have to use one, too."
     "I only go on short walks."
     "It doesn't matter."
     "It probably doesn't work."
     "I'm sure it does."
     "Besides, I don't even know how to use it."
     "Dad!" my wife says, exasperated. She was about to say We've only shown you TEN times! but she catches herself, and then says in a more reasonable tone. "It's easy, Dad. All you have to do is press the button."
     "THIS button?" my dad asks, pressing it.
     "No!" my wife says, moving toward him.
     "No!" I say, getting halfway out of my chair, but...
     ...it's too late. My Dad has already pressed the button. Almost immediately a highly-trained voice comes through the little speaker.
     "This is so-and-so with blah-blah-blah," the voice says. "Is everything okay?"
     I assume that's the routine. First the operator tries to make contact with the owner of the Splash unit, and then, if they can't, they try to make contact with the people actually paying for the darn thing--namely me--and if they still they can't make contact, then they call 911. I'm assuming the reason they don't call the police directly is because they'd first have to identify themselves as Dunkin Donuts to get them to answer.
     Of course, I'm only joking.
     My wife, meanwhile, takes the Splash unit out of my Dad's hand.
     "What?" he says, looking at me.
     "You only use it in case of emergencies," my wife chastises him in a harsh whisper.
     "What?" he says, looking at her.
     My wife then busies herself explaining to the operator that the unit was pressed by accident. Taking into account the people these units are intended for, I'm sure the operator has heard it a thousand times before.
     "I was just seeing if it worked," my Dad makes up on the spot.
     "Dad, you know better than that," I tell him.
     "What?" he says.
     My wife, meanwhile, is finished with the operator and hands my Dad back his Splash unit.
     "Here, Dad," she tells him. "Now, whatever you do, don't press that button."
     "THIS button?"
 
 
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Monday, October 6, 2014

Searching for the Lost Ark of the Convenant (Part Seven)

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 to call. Mine, my wife's... the Pope's. The unit even has a GPS tracker that will pin-point my father's whereabouts the way those white supremacists were able to pin-point Walter White's buried drug fortune toward the end of Breaking Bad.
     Even before the reunion, my wife and I have been worried that if he was to fall, even in his room, he would not be able to call for help. On his walks, if he was to take a left turn instead of a right, he might get so turned around that he could end up at your front door.
     No, really. I'm talking about your front door. (And, speaking of you, you should make your kids and loved ones carry one. You know the drill. Do as I say, not as I blah, blah, blah.)
     With this unit, all he has to do is push the button and they'll be able to pinpoint him. After they pinpoint him, they can call us or they can call 911, or they can do any variation of the two. In case he gets confused and walks into the ocean or accidentally drops it into the toilet, it's waterproof. It even has an app that lets me check on my computer for his whereabouts. Unfortunately, one thing it won't let me check is his bank account, so I can take a look at how my inheritance is doing.
     I asked my wife, "Why do we need it?"
     She didn't answer. She just gave me "the look."
     "Don't you love your father?" she asked, finally.
     "What does love have to do with it?" I ask her back. Coincidentally, that's the same line I used after I asked her to marry me.
     Of course, my father was of the opinion that he was above carrying such a tiny nuisance.
     "Blah, blah, blah," he said.
     "Blah, blah, blah?" he wanted to know.
     And, as if we were dealing with a child who's gotten big enough to forget he's still small, we had to come up with answers that made him feel like he was the one making all the decisions.
     My wife told him that the doctor recommended it. She told him that the doctor prescribed it. She told him that the doctor even had one himself.
     She said it had nothing to do with his mental faculties or his physical capabilities. It was for the slim chance there was ever an emergency. If he had one or came across one, he would have a way of calling for help.
     "I can call for help," he informed my wife, and then proceeded to show her. "Help! Help!"
     "Dad, you know that's not what I mean," she said.
     "I don't need it," my Dad told her.
     "It's only in case of an emergency," she told him back.
     "I don't want it," he insisted.
     "But what if you saw a little boy get hurt?" she insisted back.
     "That's his problem. I'm not interested in carrying that thing around," he was determined.
     "You should be," she was just as determined.
     And then she said those four magic words that made everything all right.
     "We're paying for it," she said, nodding her head in my direction, indicating her and me. Mainly me.
     My Dad looked at her.
     My Dad looked at me.
     And then he looked at her.
     And then he looked at me.
     When he looked at her, I'm sure he probably was thinking, "My daughter-in-law... she's always looking out for me."
     When he looked at me, I know he was thinking, "My son... I always like sticking it to him."
     "Well, if the doctor says so," he said, shrugging his shoulders and finally agreeing. His wallet safely sleeping in his back pocket.
 
 
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