Email To My Brother: Things Were Done Differently Back Then

 My father is old school.
     I mean, really old school.
     I once peeked at his Social Security card and his number was #000-00-0007.
     When my beautiful wife and I got him a dog, we got him a dog for two reasons:
     1) for company, and
     2) because he wanted one.
     "You won't have to worry about a thing," he told us like an anxious ten-year-old. "I'll take care of it.
     Well, guess who takes care of it?
     I mean, besides my beautiful wife.
     Me.
     I take care of it.
     Part of the "taking care" part was having to take the poor pup to be fixed.
     My father laughed at that when I told him.
     "You don't need to take him to the vet," he told me, enthusiastically rubbing his nose in amusement.  "All you need to do is tie a string around his testicles, cutting off the circulation. In two weeks they'll fall off by themselves."
     "Will that work?" I asked him.
     I was skeptical.
     "It worked for your brother," he laughed.
     Of course, he was joking.
     I think.
  

RaisingDad

RaisingMyFather.BlogSpot.com

JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com

@JimDuchene