"Growing up, my father was king of his castle, but now that he's moved into my castle, it's a constant elbow-nudge between us for that top spot, and my wife's no help, because she caters to him all the time," I explained.
"That's nice," the veterinarian said, but he really wasn't interested. "Now, what you want to do is lift the tail and, with your thumb and forefinger, squeeze here like this. That will express the anal glands."
My father's dog suffers from clogged anal glands, and, sadly, that was the only problem my vet had a solution for.
Later, when I complained to my buddy Maloney about it, he told me, "You think you have problems? My mother-in-law is always feeding our dog table scraps, no matter how many times I ask her not to. My dog's gotten so fat, he can't walk from the kitchen to the living room without taking a nap."
Good ol' Maloney. There's no problem I have that he can't make about himself. Still, he's right. I've seen his dog. The poor thing looks like a hairy puffer fish at full puff.
"You look like twins," he tells her when he sees the two of them together. She loves their dog, so she takes it as a compliment. In fact, she loves that dog more than she loves her own grandchildren. Whenever she's out and manages to follow her trail of breadcrumbs back home, she always brings back a treat for him. A snack, a toy, sometimes even a hamburger.
"What did you bring your grandkids?" Maloney once asked, trying to shame her.
"What?" she said, caught empty-handed. "I didn't hear you."
"She'd have heard me if I was offering her a donut," Maloney griped to me later, having learned the hard-way that you can't shame the shameless.
"What does your wife say?" I asked.
"What can she say?" he answered. "She's her mother."
I've told you about Maloney's mother-in-law. She came to visit for a few days, and, eight years later, they're still waiting for her to leave.
"I'm not saying my mother-in-law is fat," Maloney backtracked, having considered the wisdom of comparing his mother-in-law to an overweight dog. "I'm just saying, when she gets into her clown car, there's not room for the other clowns."
"Slip," I sputtered, using his nickname "I can't tell you how inappropriate that is."
"But you're still going to try, aren't you?"
At least his mother-in-law takes care of their dog. In my house, guess who's going to be in charge of squeezing out my father's dog's anal glands?
"You want some ice cream, dad?" my wife asked, bringing me back to the point of this story.
My father and I were sitting at the kitchen table, having just finished a five-star breakfast lovingly prepared by my wife. We continued sitting there, enjoying a nice cup of gourmet coffee. I don't drink, smoke, or do drugs. Nor do I gamble or womanize. Gourmet coffee is one of my few indulgences. My father prefers instant, but that's neither here nor there.
We were reading the morning newspaper. Make that, my father was reading the morning newspaper. I usually help myself to the sections he's done with, which means I sit there paperless because my father hoards the newspaper like Hints From Heloise was printed on gold. I pay for the paper, but my father gets first crack at it.
Go figure.
You know, now that I think about it, my father moves pretty quick for an old man. When it comes to beating me to the newspaper, that is. His wallet, well, that's another story.
But I digress...
My father looked up from the paper.
"Huh... well... hmm..." he said. "What's that again?"
"Would you like some ice cream?"
"Some what?"
"Some ice cream."
"Well, yeah, I could eat some ice cream."
That wasn't exactly what my wife asked, but it was close enough.
"What flavor would you like?"
Sadly, that's where my wife made her mistake. Giving my father a choice.
"Huh... well... hmm..." he mused, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "What flavor would I like?"
"Yes, dad. What flavor would you like?"
"What flavor would I like? What flavor would I like? Well... hmm... what flavors do you have?"
"We have chocolate and vanilla?"
"You have what?"
We only had the same two flavors we always have. My wife might occasionally buy something different, Cherry Garcia or coffee with chocolate chunks are particular favorites, but chocolate and vanilla are the usual suspects in our home.
"Huh... well... hmm..." my father continued, considering the possibilities. "You said chocolate and vanilla?"
"Yes, dad, we have chocolate and vanilla."
"Well, I don't know. You said chocolate and vanilla?"
"Yes, chocolate and vanilla."
How did my life derail from reality and become part of an Abbott & Costello routine? Maybe on some level my wife was amused by these shenanigans, but probably not. Me? This time I just stayed quiet, enjoying the show. I knew better than to ask, "Who's on first?"
So my father thought about it, and then he thought about it a little more.
"Is that all you have?"
"Yes, dad. Just chocolate and vanilla."
"No strawberry?"
"No strawberry."
"Well, in that case, let me have vanilla," he finally decided, "but not too much. You always serve me too much."
My wife turned to me. I was surprised she still remembered I was there.
"Honey," she said, sweet as a bowl of Ben & Jerry's, "would you like some ice cream?"
I know she was just being polite asking my father first. In fact, it's the right thing to do, but it still irks me that I come in second in my own home. I've heard that Native Americans have always catered to their elders, but look what happened to the Native Americans.
"No thanks, sweetie," I told her. "I'm going for a walk."
Off the nearest cliff.
Anyone wanna express my father's dog's anal glands? Let me know at RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com. JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com, @JimDuchene.
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