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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