Who Feeds The Dog?

 Every morning my father goes on his morning walk, rain or shine. Even the days he doesn't want to go, he'll go. Sometimes our conversations will go like this:

"Man," he'll tell me, "I really don't feel like going on my walk this morning."

"Why don't you take a break?" I'll ask him.

"What?"

"If you're not feeling good, why don't you give yourself a break?"

"A break from what?"

"From your walk."

"From my what?"

"From your walk."

He'll pause. Think. Chew on the idea a bit.

"Why would I want to do that?" he'll finally say.

"I'm just saying, if you're not feeling good."

"Who said I'm not feeling good?"

"You told me that you didn't feel like going on your walk."

"Yeah, but I didn't say I didn't feel good. I just said I didn't feel like going on my walk. That's not the same thing."

He has a point. I guess. I just wish he wouldn't make it with a what-are-you,-nuts? look on his face.

On occasion, he'll also go on an afternoon walk. Today, that's what he does. It's a little warm for where we live, 79 degrees and sunny. He goes out wearing an old t-shirt, a very old gray sweater, and an even older pair of sweatpants... with a very new, state of the art pair of walking shoes that he says make his feet hurt and have shoelaces that don't work. On days when it's cold, he'll go out wearing a tank top and Speedos. Just kidding. He'll put on his flip-flops, too. The point is he always decides to wear the opposite of what the weather calls for. We no longer tell him when it's hot outside or cold outside or if there's an earthquake in progress. He's old enough to make his own decisions.

He returns an hour later, and, as usual, my wife has something cold for him too drink... but not too cold. My wife is thoughtful that way.

When my father walks into the house, she hands it to him. No words are exchanged. In other words, he doesn't say thank you. What he does do is take the glass and help himself to a big drink.

"Ahhh..." he says. "Mmm..." he continues. "Oh, yeah... that was good." Still no thank you. "That hit the spot."

I'm sure it did.

"What kind of orange juice was that?" he asks my wife.

"It's the Sam's brand," she tells him. "Did you like it?"

She's expecting a positive response, especially with the enthusiasm he showed drinking it.

"Ummm... ahhh..." my father hems and haws. "It's not as good as the one you used to buy."

The one we used to buy is the exact same brand. We've bought the Sam's brand of orange juice since there've been orange trees. Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, but we have been getting it for a very long time. At least as long as since he's moved in with us.

To make a long story short, my father sits himself down at the table and waits to be served dinner. My wife's a good cook, but she's not our maid.

"That's okay," my wife will tell me. "I don't mind serving him."

"Yeah, but I mind," I tell her, or I would have told her, but why open that particular can of worms?

After she serves my father she turns her attention to our grandson who happens to be spending the day with us, he's a toddler. He's a toddler, and he requires less attention from us than my father does. He's less fussy, that's for sure. Mainly, he likes to toddle around with a big smile on his face.

To help her, I start to serve myself. 

I can see she has her hands full.

My father keeps eating. For an old guy, he's shoveling his food down like the guy in charge of shoveling coal into a steam train's boiler. He doesn't even look up when he tells my wife, "Don't worry about feeding my dog, I'll do it." Which is code for: "When are you going to feed my dog?"

I look at my wife. My wife looks at me. We both notice that my father continues eating and makes no move toward getting up to feed his dog. She shakes her head and gives me a smile before answering my father.

"I'll feed him as soon as I'm done feeding the baby," she tells him.

"Oh, okay" he answers, "If you insist."

"I'll get it, sweetie," I tell her, getting up. I lean closer, and whisper in her ear, "But it's gonna cost you."

I give her a lascivious wink, and walk off to get the dogfood, which we keep in the kitchen pantry.

"What'd he say?" my father asks my wife when he thinks I can't hear him.

"He said he's going to feed your dog," she tells him.

"No," he says, "The other thing."

"What other thing?"

He's going to say something, but stops when I walk back into view.

"Oh... nothing," he says.

I know he wants to know what I whispered in my wife's ear, but he just doesn't know how to ask. So to tease him, I lean over and whisper in my wife's ear again.

"Pretend I just said something funny," I tell her.

"You're evil," she tells me, not quite loud enough for my father to hear.

"What about the dog?" he asks, which is code for: "What are you saying about me?"

There's an old rock and roll song where the singer sings, "I love being bad, 'cause it sure feels good."

I know exactly what he means.