Rodent the pseudo-dog, the shih tzu (in an ancient Chinese dialect 'shih tzu' means 'What The Little Dog Will Do On Your Rug'), stayed with us twice over the Holidaze just concluded.
Oldest Son and his wife Abby brought her over for Christmas -- then flew to Texas for a couple of days to visit Abby's folks. Rodent stayed with us. In a doggie diaper.
Oldest Son never got around to having Rodent 'fixed' -- he decided it would be unnecessary because, as a paper-trained apartment dog, Rodent was unlikely to come in contact with other dogs, particularly at those difficult moments -- so when she stayed with us in December she was experiencing, well, put it this way: Long Suffering Spouse said, "Sometimes it's hard to be a girl dog."
Rodent's Christmas visit overlapped the end of our visit from Older Daughter and her big golden retriever, Cork. So much for the not coming-into-contact-with-other-dogs theory.
Rodent is a sad excuse for a canine, but she has a better sense of smell than any human, and she knew Cork was in residence before she got to the front door. Abby had to carry her in.
Still, this meeting went better than their initial encounter. Someone had to hold onto Rodent at all times (and she trembled like a leaf in a hurricane the entire time) but Cork's attentions were not too obnoxious and easily interrupted (goldens may be among the more easily distracted dog breeds). And Older Daughter did have to leave that day to rejoin her husband Hank (he'd gone home, by bus, on Christmas Eve morning, so he'd be in time for his church-singing gig).
When Oldest Son and Abby got Rodent they knew full well that they had a built-in babysitter for their pocket pooch in Younger Daughter. Younger Daughter is a sucker for puppies -- and a teeny-tiny furball like Rodent was enough to send Younger Daughter into squeals of ecstasy. She'd come home from college -- to our home -- to babysit the dog when Oldest Son and Abby wanted to head to South Bend for football Saturdays. Once or twice Long Suffering Spouse and I took Younger Daughter to Oldest Son's apartment to do her dogsitting duty, but that provided us no real relief.
But now, of course, Younger Daughter has other responsibilities. Rodent finds this confusing. Younger Daughter used to bring the dog up to bed with her at night. Now, when she brings her to bed, Olaf is already there and he has privately admitted to me that he has kicked the dog once or twice during the night -- entirely by accident, of course. And then, when Younger Daughter is awake and supposed to be devoting herself (in Rodent's view) to carrying Rodent around like a plush toy, there's a baby in Younger Daughter's arms instead.
Rodent does not know what to make of the baby. She knows it's not another dog, but, just as Rodent is a poor excuse for a dog, from Rodent's point of view, the baby is a poor excuse for a human. The baby doesn't pet her, it doesn't feed her, it doesn't praise her when she does her business on the puppy pad. A couple of times Rodent has just barked at the baby in frustration.
Rodent had thought Younger Daughter a perfectly acceptable substitute for Abby on those occasions when Abby would be unavailable... but, now, Rodent was no longer sure. Younger Daughter was just as goofy over her as ever -- but not as often. Not exclusively. Rodent acted as though she felt betrayed.
And, at Christmastime, even after Cork was safely back in Indianapolis, Rodent was not too sure that it was really safe to wander our house. She smelled Cork everywhere.
You have never seen a dog, or pseudo-dog, quite so happy as Rodent was when Oldest Son and Abby returned from their Texas trip.
Rodent must have been so confused when Oldest Son and Abby brought her out to our house again late last week. They were on their way to Miami for the BCS Championship game, and what are parents for? (At least this time Rodent was doggy diaper-free.)
Rodent's initial reluctance on getting out of the car quickly passed: She could not detect Cork's scent. Maybe it would be safe! I can't help but wonder if she speculated about whether Olaf and the baby might be gone, too. If that was her hope, however, it was quickly disappointed.
Still, without Cork around, Rodent felt free to roam the house (much more room than in her apartment) and, she discovered, Long Suffering Spouse could provide some of the attention and affection that Younger Daughter had diverted to the baby. One night Long Suffering Spouse graded papers in her chair (she had a lot to do over Christmas break) and I wondered where the dog had gotten to. Then I noticed: She had curled in behind Long Suffering Spouse, in the chair, snug and warm as possible.
We ordered pizza Friday night -- and the one thing Rodent knows about food, based on her life with Oldest Son and Abby, is that delivery people bring the best food.
I couldn't help myself. She was begging for a piece of my pizza so urgently -- so dog-like -- that I had to give her a little piece of crust. Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter both remarked on my uncharacteristic behavior. "You never give that poor dog anything," my wife said.
"That's just it," I agreed. "She's such a rotten excuse for a dog -- but she was exhibiting dog-like behavior just now. I just had to reinforce it."
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Showing posts with label Rodent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rodent. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
Thursday, August 30, 2012
The extended family parking lot a/k/a the Curmudgeon home
Regular readers already know that Younger Daughter and her husband Olaf are residing with us for the foreseeable future. Their child -- our granddaughter -- is scheduled to join them in early October. Long Suffering Spouse, who knows a little about these things, doesn't think she'll hold out that long. Long Suffering Spouse is hoping that Younger Daughter will make it through most of September, but she's not accepting any bets.
Meanwhile, Oldest Son and his wife Abby came by yesterday, stopping off on their way to Dublin, Ireland and the Notre Dame - Navy game Saturday. It was not purely a social call. They wanted us to drive them to the airport and they needed to leave their car with us. The Curmudgeon residence is located conveniently near to O'Hare International Airport (the one Da Late Mare Daley used to refer to as "O'Hara").
They'd already left their dog. Oldest Son brought Rodent over to the house yesterday morning, on his way to work. He lives in Lincoln Park, near the Lake and Chicago's Loop, but he works as a consultant and his current project has him toiling in Vernon Hills, a Lake County suburb created to host a shopping mall. (No, really. But that's a different story.) He didn't plan to go all the way home yesterday. He had the luggage in his car; his wife, Abby, was bringing whatever she could remember that they'd forgotten and joining him at our house after she was through for the day at her Loop office. (She took the El, like I do.)
After the Notre Dame game, Oldest Son and Abby are going to wander around Ireland and England for a week or so. (Oldest Son is hoping he won't encounter too many language difficulties. Yes, he is a smart-aleck. I'm curious as to what the kids are going to do over there -- Oldest Son has never been one to get excited about touring castles and churches and museums. I'm sure there are a few breweries and distilleries on their itinerary, but for a week? Neither one of them plays golf seriously.)
Middle Son is not going to Dublin -- for one thing, he's not a Domer -- but he is going to California on Friday to visit a high school friend. His friend just moved to Los Angeles but he's self-conscious about taking in the tourist sites without actual tourists in tow. Middle Son and a couple other compadres have volunteered for this duty.
We're not sure when he's dropping his car off.
Long Suffering Spouse put a happy spin on things when we dropped Abby and Oldest Son off at O'Hare. "Have a good time for us, too!" she said.
We've never been to Ireland. I've never been east of Manhattan. Unless Newark is. (I flew into Newark once, for a deposition.) I went to California once, also for a deposition. I never left the vicinity of the airport on that latter occasion. It is a scurrilous falsehood that I wore a life jacket everywhere -- but I was concerned that a capricious fate might have picked my visit as the time for California to fall off into the ocean. I did go for a walk on the afternoon of my arrival and was followed by a police car for awhile. Apparently walking is a very suspicious activity in Southern California.
But we are genuinely pleased that the kids are able to travel.
In fact, something else has sort of dawned on me and it also pleases me. In America, it is an article of faith that each generation should expect to do better than the one that came before it.
This, of course, is impossible: Much as we'd like to think otherwise, not all of us will become the ancestor of a future Bill Gates or Warren Buffett. There has to be some backsliding somewhere.
Here is where I find a renewed sense of self-worth: I'm the backslider. At a comparable age, my father was increasingly prosperous and respected. I'm in steep decline. I'm waiting for my wife's paycheck so I can pay the phone and cable bills. I've billed so little this year that I'll be lucky to clear as much as my wife makes as a Catholic school teacher.
So I've taken the pressure off the kids. The three older ones, the ones already getting established in their careers, have already exceeded me. And I keep lowering the bar for the younger ones, too. In other words, as a failure, I'm a success.
(Don't dwell on that one too long. Let me have my moment, confused as it may be.)
The vicinity of our house is going to look like a used car lot for a week or so while the kids go gallivanting around the world on their vacations.
Meanwhile, on Saturday at some point, we'll be picking up Carl from the airport. Carl, for those of you who don't have total recall, is the husband of my wife's old college roommate, Penny. You met Penny here when Long Suffering Spouse and I had a surprise 25th anniversary party. (Well, at least it was a surprise to me.)Penny and Carl are the proud parents of four adopted kids, one of whom is in college, the next in high school, and then the Korean twins (adopted as critically ill preemies), Tim and Tom. They're 6 now; Penny and Carl decided they'd stay home with Penny this weekend while Carl comes here for a 25th anniversary party for our friends Steve and Charlotte.
With the exception of Charlotte, all of us went to college together, but Steve and Carl were also high school classmates; that's why he's traveling and Penny is staying behind this time. (If you need to know more about Penny and Carl check the stories about Younger Daughter's wedding in the June 2012 archives.)
Carl will be staying over Saturday.
Why not? Everyone else does. Carl will probably feel bad that he doesn't have an extra car to park with us.
Meanwhile, Oldest Son and his wife Abby came by yesterday, stopping off on their way to Dublin, Ireland and the Notre Dame - Navy game Saturday. It was not purely a social call. They wanted us to drive them to the airport and they needed to leave their car with us. The Curmudgeon residence is located conveniently near to O'Hare International Airport (the one Da Late Mare Daley used to refer to as "O'Hara").
They'd already left their dog. Oldest Son brought Rodent over to the house yesterday morning, on his way to work. He lives in Lincoln Park, near the Lake and Chicago's Loop, but he works as a consultant and his current project has him toiling in Vernon Hills, a Lake County suburb created to host a shopping mall. (No, really. But that's a different story.) He didn't plan to go all the way home yesterday. He had the luggage in his car; his wife, Abby, was bringing whatever she could remember that they'd forgotten and joining him at our house after she was through for the day at her Loop office. (She took the El, like I do.)
After the Notre Dame game, Oldest Son and Abby are going to wander around Ireland and England for a week or so. (Oldest Son is hoping he won't encounter too many language difficulties. Yes, he is a smart-aleck. I'm curious as to what the kids are going to do over there -- Oldest Son has never been one to get excited about touring castles and churches and museums. I'm sure there are a few breweries and distilleries on their itinerary, but for a week? Neither one of them plays golf seriously.)
Middle Son is not going to Dublin -- for one thing, he's not a Domer -- but he is going to California on Friday to visit a high school friend. His friend just moved to Los Angeles but he's self-conscious about taking in the tourist sites without actual tourists in tow. Middle Son and a couple other compadres have volunteered for this duty.
We're not sure when he's dropping his car off.
Long Suffering Spouse put a happy spin on things when we dropped Abby and Oldest Son off at O'Hare. "Have a good time for us, too!" she said.
We've never been to Ireland. I've never been east of Manhattan. Unless Newark is. (I flew into Newark once, for a deposition.) I went to California once, also for a deposition. I never left the vicinity of the airport on that latter occasion. It is a scurrilous falsehood that I wore a life jacket everywhere -- but I was concerned that a capricious fate might have picked my visit as the time for California to fall off into the ocean. I did go for a walk on the afternoon of my arrival and was followed by a police car for awhile. Apparently walking is a very suspicious activity in Southern California.
But we are genuinely pleased that the kids are able to travel.
In fact, something else has sort of dawned on me and it also pleases me. In America, it is an article of faith that each generation should expect to do better than the one that came before it.
This, of course, is impossible: Much as we'd like to think otherwise, not all of us will become the ancestor of a future Bill Gates or Warren Buffett. There has to be some backsliding somewhere.
Here is where I find a renewed sense of self-worth: I'm the backslider. At a comparable age, my father was increasingly prosperous and respected. I'm in steep decline. I'm waiting for my wife's paycheck so I can pay the phone and cable bills. I've billed so little this year that I'll be lucky to clear as much as my wife makes as a Catholic school teacher.
So I've taken the pressure off the kids. The three older ones, the ones already getting established in their careers, have already exceeded me. And I keep lowering the bar for the younger ones, too. In other words, as a failure, I'm a success.
(Don't dwell on that one too long. Let me have my moment, confused as it may be.)
The vicinity of our house is going to look like a used car lot for a week or so while the kids go gallivanting around the world on their vacations.
Meanwhile, on Saturday at some point, we'll be picking up Carl from the airport. Carl, for those of you who don't have total recall, is the husband of my wife's old college roommate, Penny. You met Penny here when Long Suffering Spouse and I had a surprise 25th anniversary party. (Well, at least it was a surprise to me.)Penny and Carl are the proud parents of four adopted kids, one of whom is in college, the next in high school, and then the Korean twins (adopted as critically ill preemies), Tim and Tom. They're 6 now; Penny and Carl decided they'd stay home with Penny this weekend while Carl comes here for a 25th anniversary party for our friends Steve and Charlotte.
With the exception of Charlotte, all of us went to college together, but Steve and Carl were also high school classmates; that's why he's traveling and Penny is staying behind this time. (If you need to know more about Penny and Carl check the stories about Younger Daughter's wedding in the June 2012 archives.)
Carl will be staying over Saturday.
Why not? Everyone else does. Carl will probably feel bad that he doesn't have an extra car to park with us.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
A visit to Indianapolis -- Part I
Sometimes, when I prepare these little essays, I want to share more of what's going on in my world with you -- "you" meaning the few readers I do have, as well as you, the potential readers that exist only in my fevered imagination -- but I am reluctant to do so lest I reveal too much and compromise my anonymity.
This weekend provides an example; I'd explain but that would defeat the purpose.
I can tell you that Long Suffering Spouse and I went to Indianapolis to visit Older Daughter and her husband, Hank. Older Daughter was just implanted again, and Long Suffering Spouse was planning to visit and see to it that Older Daughter really did rest. (Older Daughter is undergoing IVF treatment. If you're interested, you can catch up here and here -- feel free to read all seven parts if you really want.)
I was not planning to go. I thought I'd be at home with Younger Daughter and the pseudo-dog, Rodent. Rodent is the pocket-sized pooch owned by Oldest Son and his wife Abby (following the links from this post will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about Rodent). Oldest Son and his wife were in Vegas for an extended weekend and Younger Daughter was asked to dog-sit. Since Younger Daughter has no place of her own, and dogs -- even very small ones -- are frowned upon in her college dormitory, the Curmudgeon residence is always volunteered as the venue for the dog-sitting.
Not by me, you understand.
I had stuff I'd planned to do at home -- viz., the grass, the laundry, a post on my public blog, preparing for a speech on Monday evening, preparing for a cable appearance on Wednesday afternoon -- and we wouldn't ordinarily leave Younger Daughter home by herself, especially with the dog. There would really be nothing for me to do in Indianapolis except mope around. Long Suffering Spouse was planning to stay at the kids' apartment; I'd have wanted to stay at a hotel -- but that would have been inconsistent with my wife's goal of hovering to make sure her daughter stayed at rest. So the decision that we would go our separate ways this past weekend seemed settled and uncontroversial. But Long Suffering Spouse was enormously tired by the end of the week. I already forget why. So much is going on in our lives at this point that I'm having trouble keeping track. It may not have been any particular crisis; it may just have been the consequence of my wife's return to the classroom after Easter Break: We're both usually dead tired by Friday evening.
Anyway, Older Daughter and Younger Daughter were both concerned that Long Suffering Spouse would have difficulty making the drive by herself on Friday. I suggested that she stay home Friday and leave early on Saturday -- but that was vetoed. And by late Friday morning it had become apparent that I was going to have to go too.
I left the Teeny Tiny Law Office in mid-afternoon and Long Suffering Spouse and I started packing immediately. We had dinner at home, though, so we weren't able to leave until 6:30. We weren't moving fast.
And we only moved slower when we got on the Tollway. I know better than to try and drive through the city on a Friday evening -- the Kennedy delays can make forever seem like an eye-blink -- but there was an accident on I-294 and it took us a good hour to make a portion of the trip we can usually make in 10 minutes.
We heard from Younger Daughter en route. It seems a giant centipede ("furry" and "with stripes") had decided to show itself just after we left. I asked if the centipede ate Rodent; Younger Daughter was not amused. Although he had escaped the giant centipede, Rodent had begun barking, first at the front door, then the back door -- just little yip, yap, yip barks -- the kind that confirms for any experienced gang of house-burglars that herein lies easy pickins. Younger Daughter could not get the animal to stop. She'd looked out the windows but saw no gangs of any kind; nevertheless, she'd turned on every light in the house. (She'd already turned on most of them in response to the centipede. Younger Daughter had a spray bottle of bleach ready to confront that centipede should it reappear. Long Suffering Spouse counseled against this. "You'll only make it mad," she warned.)
We got to Indianapolis well after 11:00 p.m. local time. Hank poured me a tumbler of Irish whiskey to help me unwind from the drive. I don't think he minded too much because this gave him an excuse to join me. Then I had to wind my 6'2" frame into a 4' loveseat. (Oh, yes, we had to stay at the apartment, even with me along.) Long Suffering Spouse was on the full couch with Older Daughter -- who refused to toddle off to bed until long after Iwent to sleep passed out.
Saturday Hank and I went out -- I had a charge card bill to pay at Chase. Chase makes it impossible to pay a bill on line unless you give them a cell phone number so they can send you a phony "security code." Look: A security code is entirely stupid and pointless when someone is trying to pay a bill. First of all, I really don't care if some stranger wants to put some money toward my staggering Chase Card balance. I don't mind if you do. Why should there be a security code to discourage that? Second, I realize that the only reason Chase wants me to give over my cell phone number is so they can sell it and I can start getting sales calls on my cell phone. The bastards. They are never getting it from me.
One of the reasons our departure was delayed Friday was that I was trying to pay the stupid bill on line. I was trying to get Chase to send my unnecessary, unneeded and unwanted security code to an email account -- Chase says it provides this service -- but I sat waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and the email did not show up. Meanwhile, while waiting for Chase's email, the Chase site automatically logs off -- for my protection, of course. The thieves.
So Hank and I went out. Fortunately, there's a Chase by Hank's office and, even more fortunately, Hank needed to stop by his office anyway to scan some documents he and Older Daughter needed to send to their mortgage broker.
It's not enough, you see, that they're trying to get pregnant with this horribly invasive IVF process, with the shots and the pills and the acupuncture and the ovaries in overdrive and all that stuff -- Older Daughter and Hank have also decided that now is the time to buy a house. Well, their dog, Cork (more about him here) had been chewing holes in the carpeting in the apartment, so naturally the remedy for this would have to be to get the dog his own house with a backyard to play in.
Naturally.
While we were at Hank's office, Hank introduced me to one of his colleagues who was there doing a little extra work on a Saturday morning. Hank said, "This is my father-in-law," and the young man said hello. I said, "Yes, it's Hank's turn to watch me this morning."
The young man did not bat an eye.
Either he has no sense of humor -- or he took one look at me and found what I'd said all too plausible.
I'm hoping it's the former.
These errands alone were not enough, of course. Two men can not go out on a Saturday morning without returning with baked goods. This is a survival from prehistoric times. The cave women would want to chitchat, so they'd tell the menfolk to go out and find a mastodon or something for lunch. I think donuts and coffee cake are much more civilized, and also easier to carry.
So we ate and watched Harry Potter movies (Older Daughter wanted a 'film festival') and I missed Phillip Humber's perfect game.
I didn't know anything special was happening until Oldest Son texted me -- just one word: "HUMBER!!!"
I'd better get me some by-gosh grandchildren out of all this.
More on the Indianapolis trip tomorrow.
This weekend provides an example; I'd explain but that would defeat the purpose.
I can tell you that Long Suffering Spouse and I went to Indianapolis to visit Older Daughter and her husband, Hank. Older Daughter was just implanted again, and Long Suffering Spouse was planning to visit and see to it that Older Daughter really did rest. (Older Daughter is undergoing IVF treatment. If you're interested, you can catch up here and here -- feel free to read all seven parts if you really want.)
I was not planning to go. I thought I'd be at home with Younger Daughter and the pseudo-dog, Rodent. Rodent is the pocket-sized pooch owned by Oldest Son and his wife Abby (following the links from this post will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about Rodent). Oldest Son and his wife were in Vegas for an extended weekend and Younger Daughter was asked to dog-sit. Since Younger Daughter has no place of her own, and dogs -- even very small ones -- are frowned upon in her college dormitory, the Curmudgeon residence is always volunteered as the venue for the dog-sitting.
Not by me, you understand.
I had stuff I'd planned to do at home -- viz., the grass, the laundry, a post on my public blog, preparing for a speech on Monday evening, preparing for a cable appearance on Wednesday afternoon -- and we wouldn't ordinarily leave Younger Daughter home by herself, especially with the dog. There would really be nothing for me to do in Indianapolis except mope around. Long Suffering Spouse was planning to stay at the kids' apartment; I'd have wanted to stay at a hotel -- but that would have been inconsistent with my wife's goal of hovering to make sure her daughter stayed at rest. So the decision that we would go our separate ways this past weekend seemed settled and uncontroversial. But Long Suffering Spouse was enormously tired by the end of the week. I already forget why. So much is going on in our lives at this point that I'm having trouble keeping track. It may not have been any particular crisis; it may just have been the consequence of my wife's return to the classroom after Easter Break: We're both usually dead tired by Friday evening.
Anyway, Older Daughter and Younger Daughter were both concerned that Long Suffering Spouse would have difficulty making the drive by herself on Friday. I suggested that she stay home Friday and leave early on Saturday -- but that was vetoed. And by late Friday morning it had become apparent that I was going to have to go too.
I left the Teeny Tiny Law Office in mid-afternoon and Long Suffering Spouse and I started packing immediately. We had dinner at home, though, so we weren't able to leave until 6:30. We weren't moving fast.
And we only moved slower when we got on the Tollway. I know better than to try and drive through the city on a Friday evening -- the Kennedy delays can make forever seem like an eye-blink -- but there was an accident on I-294 and it took us a good hour to make a portion of the trip we can usually make in 10 minutes.
We heard from Younger Daughter en route. It seems a giant centipede ("furry" and "with stripes") had decided to show itself just after we left. I asked if the centipede ate Rodent; Younger Daughter was not amused. Although he had escaped the giant centipede, Rodent had begun barking, first at the front door, then the back door -- just little yip, yap, yip barks -- the kind that confirms for any experienced gang of house-burglars that herein lies easy pickins. Younger Daughter could not get the animal to stop. She'd looked out the windows but saw no gangs of any kind; nevertheless, she'd turned on every light in the house. (She'd already turned on most of them in response to the centipede. Younger Daughter had a spray bottle of bleach ready to confront that centipede should it reappear. Long Suffering Spouse counseled against this. "You'll only make it mad," she warned.)
We got to Indianapolis well after 11:00 p.m. local time. Hank poured me a tumbler of Irish whiskey to help me unwind from the drive. I don't think he minded too much because this gave him an excuse to join me. Then I had to wind my 6'2" frame into a 4' loveseat. (Oh, yes, we had to stay at the apartment, even with me along.) Long Suffering Spouse was on the full couch with Older Daughter -- who refused to toddle off to bed until long after I
Saturday Hank and I went out -- I had a charge card bill to pay at Chase. Chase makes it impossible to pay a bill on line unless you give them a cell phone number so they can send you a phony "security code." Look: A security code is entirely stupid and pointless when someone is trying to pay a bill. First of all, I really don't care if some stranger wants to put some money toward my staggering Chase Card balance. I don't mind if you do. Why should there be a security code to discourage that? Second, I realize that the only reason Chase wants me to give over my cell phone number is so they can sell it and I can start getting sales calls on my cell phone. The bastards. They are never getting it from me.
One of the reasons our departure was delayed Friday was that I was trying to pay the stupid bill on line. I was trying to get Chase to send my unnecessary, unneeded and unwanted security code to an email account -- Chase says it provides this service -- but I sat waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and the email did not show up. Meanwhile, while waiting for Chase's email, the Chase site automatically logs off -- for my protection, of course. The thieves.
So Hank and I went out. Fortunately, there's a Chase by Hank's office and, even more fortunately, Hank needed to stop by his office anyway to scan some documents he and Older Daughter needed to send to their mortgage broker.
It's not enough, you see, that they're trying to get pregnant with this horribly invasive IVF process, with the shots and the pills and the acupuncture and the ovaries in overdrive and all that stuff -- Older Daughter and Hank have also decided that now is the time to buy a house. Well, their dog, Cork (more about him here) had been chewing holes in the carpeting in the apartment, so naturally the remedy for this would have to be to get the dog his own house with a backyard to play in.
Naturally.
While we were at Hank's office, Hank introduced me to one of his colleagues who was there doing a little extra work on a Saturday morning. Hank said, "This is my father-in-law," and the young man said hello. I said, "Yes, it's Hank's turn to watch me this morning."
The young man did not bat an eye.
Either he has no sense of humor -- or he took one look at me and found what I'd said all too plausible.
I'm hoping it's the former.
These errands alone were not enough, of course. Two men can not go out on a Saturday morning without returning with baked goods. This is a survival from prehistoric times. The cave women would want to chitchat, so they'd tell the menfolk to go out and find a mastodon or something for lunch. I think donuts and coffee cake are much more civilized, and also easier to carry.
So we ate and watched Harry Potter movies (Older Daughter wanted a 'film festival') and I missed Phillip Humber's perfect game.
I didn't know anything special was happening until Oldest Son texted me -- just one word: "HUMBER!!!"
I'd better get me some by-gosh grandchildren out of all this.
More on the Indianapolis trip tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Family togetherness... and why it tires me out
It wasn't until I was writing the teaser to yesterday's post that I figured out why the kids' recent weekend visits have been so tiring.
Not until then did I realize that, these days, when the kids come to stay with us on the weekends, they come to stay with us. They want to talk with us. To watch movies with us. To play games with us. (Yes, I finished last in Saturday's Scrabble game. Again.)
Years ago, when the kids allegedly lived with us, there was one place that none of them would ever voluntarily be on a Saturday night: Our den.
From the time the kids entered junior high until they signed a lease elsewhere, Long Suffering Spouse and I had the den to ourselves on Saturday nights. If someone was home -- whether because of a disciplinary matter (theirs or someone else's) or because of some other social disaster -- that someone would be in his or her room, brooding (or, in later years, talking on his or her cell phone or chatting on line), or in the basement, taking out his or her disappointment on the Playstation.
I could, and did, get a lot of sleep on Saturday nights. If there was a sporting event on TV which might draw one of the boys from their room, I could doze off without embarrassment. Indeed, it would probably come as a relief to the kid in question who might otherwise have to engage in some sort of limited conversation with me.
Long Suffering Spouse would do stitchery on Saturday evenings, or grade papers and -- sometimes -- after I had already dropped off -- snooze a bit herself.
Even before all the kids were driving, and we had to fetch and carry them to and from their social engagements, there would be a few hours in between drop off and retrieval in which I could watch TV through the back of my eyelids. The weekends were a time for rest and relaxation.
But now, however, Long Suffering Spouse and I are allegedly the featured attraction. That was the official story Saturday evening, as Older Daughter and her husband Hank (and their golden retriever Cork), visiting from Indianapolis, decided to invite all the rest of the siblings over for a barbecue... which Long Suffering Spouse dutifully provided. (I was pressed into service trying to scrub the upper layers of carcinogens off the grill when Long Suffering Spouse noticed me hiding in a corner.)
Oldest Son and his wife Abby came by with their itsy-bitsy dog Rodent and there was a renewal of the Canine Summit, this one a bit more successful than the first such meeting last November in that Abby was much more confident on this occasion that Cork would not eat Rodent in one bite (though he could) -- but not entirely successful in that Rodent was not so easily persuaded that she was not in mortal peril.
Middle Son had stopped by the house in the middle of the afternoon, on his way home from work. He's an accountant; it's tax season. Saturday is a working day. He was hoping to pick up his mail (we remain his post office box) on his way home. His original plan was to go home for a nap and a shower before heading out for the fleshpots of Lakeview and Lincoln Park. Older Daughter, however, persuaded him to stay.
Only Youngest Son -- still in college -- was unavailable.
So... maybe Long Suffering Spouse and I weren't the main attraction. The kids enjoyed each others' company and the canine confrontation. But neither Long Suffering Spouse nor I could get in our accustomed Saturday evening snooze.
Small wonder these weekends with kids visiting are not as restful as weekends heretofore. Yes, I was tired yesterday morning, but it was because I had to play Gracious Host all weekend, not because I'm getting older.
At least, not just because I'm getting older....
Not until then did I realize that, these days, when the kids come to stay with us on the weekends, they come to stay with us. They want to talk with us. To watch movies with us. To play games with us. (Yes, I finished last in Saturday's Scrabble game. Again.)
Years ago, when the kids allegedly lived with us, there was one place that none of them would ever voluntarily be on a Saturday night: Our den.
From the time the kids entered junior high until they signed a lease elsewhere, Long Suffering Spouse and I had the den to ourselves on Saturday nights. If someone was home -- whether because of a disciplinary matter (theirs or someone else's) or because of some other social disaster -- that someone would be in his or her room, brooding (or, in later years, talking on his or her cell phone or chatting on line), or in the basement, taking out his or her disappointment on the Playstation.
I could, and did, get a lot of sleep on Saturday nights. If there was a sporting event on TV which might draw one of the boys from their room, I could doze off without embarrassment. Indeed, it would probably come as a relief to the kid in question who might otherwise have to engage in some sort of limited conversation with me.
Long Suffering Spouse would do stitchery on Saturday evenings, or grade papers and -- sometimes -- after I had already dropped off -- snooze a bit herself.
Even before all the kids were driving, and we had to fetch and carry them to and from their social engagements, there would be a few hours in between drop off and retrieval in which I could watch TV through the back of my eyelids. The weekends were a time for rest and relaxation.
But now, however, Long Suffering Spouse and I are allegedly the featured attraction. That was the official story Saturday evening, as Older Daughter and her husband Hank (and their golden retriever Cork), visiting from Indianapolis, decided to invite all the rest of the siblings over for a barbecue... which Long Suffering Spouse dutifully provided. (I was pressed into service trying to scrub the upper layers of carcinogens off the grill when Long Suffering Spouse noticed me hiding in a corner.)
Oldest Son and his wife Abby came by with their itsy-bitsy dog Rodent and there was a renewal of the Canine Summit, this one a bit more successful than the first such meeting last November in that Abby was much more confident on this occasion that Cork would not eat Rodent in one bite (though he could) -- but not entirely successful in that Rodent was not so easily persuaded that she was not in mortal peril.
Middle Son had stopped by the house in the middle of the afternoon, on his way home from work. He's an accountant; it's tax season. Saturday is a working day. He was hoping to pick up his mail (we remain his post office box) on his way home. His original plan was to go home for a nap and a shower before heading out for the fleshpots of Lakeview and Lincoln Park. Older Daughter, however, persuaded him to stay.
Only Youngest Son -- still in college -- was unavailable.
So... maybe Long Suffering Spouse and I weren't the main attraction. The kids enjoyed each others' company and the canine confrontation. But neither Long Suffering Spouse nor I could get in our accustomed Saturday evening snooze.
Small wonder these weekends with kids visiting are not as restful as weekends heretofore. Yes, I was tired yesterday morning, but it was because I had to play Gracious Host all weekend, not because I'm getting older.
At least, not just because I'm getting older....
Monday, November 28, 2011
Thanksgivings 2011, Curmudgeon style
When the kids were little, getting together as a family was simple: I had only to come home.
I always came home. Sometimes -- rarely -- I came home later than expected, having stopped longer than anticipated at a local watering hole. If I came home very late, my wife would turn off the lights, lock the door, and salt the stairs going up to our bedroom with a number of the kids' toys.
She would suppress her evil chuckles while I tried (often unsuccessfully) to suppress my curses as I lurched and lumbered up the stairs.
But the point is, when I came home, the family was together.
Time passed. When the kids began entering their teens, Long Suffering Spouse and I would have to wait, often long into the night, to get the family together. Now, as the youngest is almost done with his teens, the kids still at home are still going out. But I'm not necessarily waiting up. In fact, the kids tend to go out about the time I fall asleep. I snooze in my chair, watching TV through my eyelids, until they return. But the point is, as time went on, getting the family together took a little more effort.
Now we come to the present. Older Daughter and Oldest Son are married. Older Daughter lives in Indianapolis. Middle Son also lives away from home. Younger Daughter and Youngest Son are away at college. Now getting the family together involves serious coordination -- and panic clean-ups.
I took the day off Wednesday, in fact, to get my stuff together. It was a scheduled day off for Long Suffering Spouse.
Long Suffering Spouse is far more organized than I am. Because she has to create a lot of the materials she uses in teaching, and because she has so many different classes, from pre-school through 8th grade, my wife has stuff in several places around the house. The dining room table is her main home office, but she ordinarily has piles of binders by her rocking chair in the living room, bags of papers by her chair in the den, and stacks of folders on what (in other houses) might be the kitchen table. My pile is concentrated around the computer desk in the Curmudgeon family den. But if I were to allow someone else to sweep up all my stuff so as to dog-proof the area, I wouldn't even know what I had lost, much less where to look for it.
Ah, yes -- dog-proofing. Over the course of the Thanksgiving weekend, we were scheduled to play host to both Rodent the shih tzu (the pocket dog owned by Oldest Son and his wife Abby) (see, Christmas with Rodent & The Curmudgeon Clan, Parts I and II) and Cork (don't call him Corky), the much larger golden retriever puppy recently acquired by Older Daughter and her husband Hank.
We weren't supposed to have both dogs at once. As you may recall, we didn't expect to get the family together at all this Thanksgiving. We were reconciled to having Thanksgiving 1 and Thanksgiving 2.
But when Older Daughter got moved to the day shift on Thanksgiving instead of the overnight shift, she became determined to get to get to Chicago before the end of Thanksgiving Day. She almost made it.
She worked her 12 hour shift at the hospital. Then she joined her husband Hank at their church choir director's Thanksgiving party, already in progress. This was controversial: She called us from the party, ripping mad. The choir director was originally supposed to serve dinner around mid-afternoon. Somewhere along the line, however, he pushed the start of dinner back to 6:00.
Six o'clock? On Thanksgiving? There are only three acceptable times for serving dinner on Thanksgiving Day: Halftime of the Detroit game, in between the Detroit and Dallas games, or (if you're feeling positively continental) halftime of the Dallas game. Anything later creates the risk of family tragedy. One too many egg nogs gets consumed and all manner of family skeletons can be unearthed.
Anyway, with the late start time, Older Daughter was in time for dessert at the choir director's party. She wasn't happy about it; she was insisting on leaving for Chicago right away. She managed to get Hank out of the party but they still couldn't get on the road. They had to go home first and bundle up Cork.
Cork travels with a giant cage. I wish I'd had something similar for my children when they were small.
Anyway, by the time Older Daughter et al. got on I-65, the killer Scrabble game that followed our Thanksgiving 1 meal (served between the Detroit and Dallas games) was already almost burnt out. Abby won again, as usual. The kids all play "Words With Friends" (as close to Scrabble as the copyright laws allow) on their smart phones. They compete against each other -- and Abby usually wins those games, too.
I don't participate. I have no smart phone. Also, I have no friends.
By the time Older Daughter called to confirm that she was beginning the long northward trek (and, in turn, almost all of us tried to talk her into waiting until morning) Abby was looking at her husband, and at her watch, and making it clear that it was time to leave.
That's what good wives do -- they pull their spouses out of situations, even while they're having a good time... lest they have have too good a time and make donkeys of themselves.
Oldest Son was beginning to bray. He had knocked back several Sam Adamses during the Baltimore-San Francisco game (he managed to keep a watchful eye on those proceedings while still playing Scrabble) and, while he was still reasonably presentable, he was becoming boisterous. And he needed some non-beer time before he could drive home.
And then, somehow, Oldest Son decided that they would wait for his sister and Hank -- and Cork. The canine cousins needed to be introduced, he said. Abby was not amused. That Cork might swallow Rodent whole in a single gulp did not seem to enter into Oldest Son's calculations. Middle Son proposed a game of Risk.
There's nothing like a board game devoted to taking over the world to hold Oldest Son's interest. And so the game began.
I'd had a few scotches myself, but these were the least of my problems. I was tired. It had been a long day Wednesday preparing for the kids' arrival. (After a day of cleaning, Long Suffering Spouse had made an apple pie, two pumpkin pies, pumpkin bread, a tray of brownies and a double batch of sugar cookies. I was bushed after organizing and dog-proofing my corner of the den. But I cleaned an occasional tray and kept Christmas carols playing on the Bose machine. And I did stay loyally awake.) And Thursday had been a long day, too, even before the kids came, because I had to do errands as required while Long Suffering Spouse got the first of the turkeys in the oven (and the potatoes and sweet potatoes and corn and beans and dinner rolls and, of course, her homemade cornmeal stuffing and gravy).
In other words, it was past my bedtime when the Scrabble game ended. I entered into the Risk game (holding South America against all challengers) while eating Ritz crackers, Wheat Thins, Triscuits -- anything to stay awake. Abby played, too, her continuing efforts to induce Oldest Son to leave being studiously ignored. At one point Abby said she would take the keys and drive home with the dog. "I'll come get you when you crash the car," said Oldest Son. "You might make it to the end of the block." Abby has a driver's license -- but apparently has not driven a car since high school.
I have only a vague idea what time it was when Older Daughter arrived. I think it was somewhere around 2:00am Friday morning. There must have been some warning -- a text or something that was not directed to me -- because Abby had hold of Rodent before the front door opened.
My clue that new visitors had arrived came when the little dog began shaking and barking and barking and shaking and growling, all at a very excited, high pitch. Moments later, I heard deeper growling and barking: Cork had come into the house. When I saw him standing in the living room he was shaking, too. I'm not certain whether this shaking was meant to convey hostility or fear or merely curiosity. What it conveyed to me was this: Older Daughter is here. Now maybe I can go to bed.
Younger Daughter was all over the new canine arrival. "Aren't you the cutest thing? Oh, yes, you are?" She'd become acquainted with Cork on a recent trip to Indianapolis.
Oldest Son laughed. "No wonder Rodent is barking. You're being unfaithful to her." Younger Daughter glowered.
"I am not!" she protested. "But Abby has hold of her."
"I don't know," said Abby, playing along, "I think Rodent is shocked at how fickle you are."
Long Suffering Spouse had, by this time, been asleep for at least an hour, maybe two. She'd sat in my recliner in the corner of the den farthest from the noisy Risk game in the dining room and, at some point, passed out. Who could blame her? I merely envied her.
The new dog noise roused Long Suffering Spouse somewhat. She got up and stumbled toward the front of the house, heading for the stairs to our bedroom, passing the dog, passing her son-in-law, passing her newly arrived daughter. Along the way she said something like, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here. Happy Thanksgiving. Good night."
I followed close behind. I was less articulate. "You're here. Good night."
Abby needed only one hand to hold Rodent. With her other hand, she dragged Oldest Son toward the front door. "So nice to see you. What a lovely dog. Good night."
I gather Middle Son stayed a moment or two, but he had a wedding to attend on Friday and needed to be home hours before. Younger Daughter apparently stayed up awhile to get her sister and brother-in-law settled. And to play with the dog of course. But you can't prove it by me.
Long Suffering Spouse and I were out of bed a few hours later to start the second turkey. (You can't have Thanksgiving 2 with leftovers, can you?) I ate. I fell asleep. My mother-in-law came by for a few hours after dinner. I stayed asleep throughout. She told my wife she was worried that I was so tired. I'm not worried. I was exhausted.
I'd like to tell you we spent the rest of the weekend recuperating, but it would not be true. We got Cork and Hank and Older Daughter back on the road to Indianapolis Saturday night. We got back from dropping Youngest Son back at South Janesville College and then from dropping Younger Daughter at her dorm on Sunday afternoon just before dark. It was then time to start looking for all the things we'd squirreled away in order to dog-proof the house. Then we could start the weekend chores. Much of the conversation in the car between Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter concerned how little Older Daughter realized all that we had to do to prepare for her visit.
Don't get me wrong: I really was happy to have the whole family at home this weekend. But, these days, it's a lot of work.
I always came home. Sometimes -- rarely -- I came home later than expected, having stopped longer than anticipated at a local watering hole. If I came home very late, my wife would turn off the lights, lock the door, and salt the stairs going up to our bedroom with a number of the kids' toys.
She would suppress her evil chuckles while I tried (often unsuccessfully) to suppress my curses as I lurched and lumbered up the stairs.
But the point is, when I came home, the family was together.
Time passed. When the kids began entering their teens, Long Suffering Spouse and I would have to wait, often long into the night, to get the family together. Now, as the youngest is almost done with his teens, the kids still at home are still going out. But I'm not necessarily waiting up. In fact, the kids tend to go out about the time I fall asleep. I snooze in my chair, watching TV through my eyelids, until they return. But the point is, as time went on, getting the family together took a little more effort.
Now we come to the present. Older Daughter and Oldest Son are married. Older Daughter lives in Indianapolis. Middle Son also lives away from home. Younger Daughter and Youngest Son are away at college. Now getting the family together involves serious coordination -- and panic clean-ups.
I took the day off Wednesday, in fact, to get my stuff together. It was a scheduled day off for Long Suffering Spouse.
Long Suffering Spouse is far more organized than I am. Because she has to create a lot of the materials she uses in teaching, and because she has so many different classes, from pre-school through 8th grade, my wife has stuff in several places around the house. The dining room table is her main home office, but she ordinarily has piles of binders by her rocking chair in the living room, bags of papers by her chair in the den, and stacks of folders on what (in other houses) might be the kitchen table. My pile is concentrated around the computer desk in the Curmudgeon family den. But if I were to allow someone else to sweep up all my stuff so as to dog-proof the area, I wouldn't even know what I had lost, much less where to look for it.
Ah, yes -- dog-proofing. Over the course of the Thanksgiving weekend, we were scheduled to play host to both Rodent the shih tzu (the pocket dog owned by Oldest Son and his wife Abby) (see, Christmas with Rodent & The Curmudgeon Clan, Parts I and II) and Cork (don't call him Corky), the much larger golden retriever puppy recently acquired by Older Daughter and her husband Hank.
We weren't supposed to have both dogs at once. As you may recall, we didn't expect to get the family together at all this Thanksgiving. We were reconciled to having Thanksgiving 1 and Thanksgiving 2.
But when Older Daughter got moved to the day shift on Thanksgiving instead of the overnight shift, she became determined to get to get to Chicago before the end of Thanksgiving Day. She almost made it.
She worked her 12 hour shift at the hospital. Then she joined her husband Hank at their church choir director's Thanksgiving party, already in progress. This was controversial: She called us from the party, ripping mad. The choir director was originally supposed to serve dinner around mid-afternoon. Somewhere along the line, however, he pushed the start of dinner back to 6:00.
Six o'clock? On Thanksgiving? There are only three acceptable times for serving dinner on Thanksgiving Day: Halftime of the Detroit game, in between the Detroit and Dallas games, or (if you're feeling positively continental) halftime of the Dallas game. Anything later creates the risk of family tragedy. One too many egg nogs gets consumed and all manner of family skeletons can be unearthed.
Anyway, with the late start time, Older Daughter was in time for dessert at the choir director's party. She wasn't happy about it; she was insisting on leaving for Chicago right away. She managed to get Hank out of the party but they still couldn't get on the road. They had to go home first and bundle up Cork.
Cork travels with a giant cage. I wish I'd had something similar for my children when they were small.
Anyway, by the time Older Daughter et al. got on I-65, the killer Scrabble game that followed our Thanksgiving 1 meal (served between the Detroit and Dallas games) was already almost burnt out. Abby won again, as usual. The kids all play "Words With Friends" (as close to Scrabble as the copyright laws allow) on their smart phones. They compete against each other -- and Abby usually wins those games, too.
I don't participate. I have no smart phone. Also, I have no friends.
By the time Older Daughter called to confirm that she was beginning the long northward trek (and, in turn, almost all of us tried to talk her into waiting until morning) Abby was looking at her husband, and at her watch, and making it clear that it was time to leave.
That's what good wives do -- they pull their spouses out of situations, even while they're having a good time... lest they have have too good a time and make donkeys of themselves.
Oldest Son was beginning to bray. He had knocked back several Sam Adamses during the Baltimore-San Francisco game (he managed to keep a watchful eye on those proceedings while still playing Scrabble) and, while he was still reasonably presentable, he was becoming boisterous. And he needed some non-beer time before he could drive home.
And then, somehow, Oldest Son decided that they would wait for his sister and Hank -- and Cork. The canine cousins needed to be introduced, he said. Abby was not amused. That Cork might swallow Rodent whole in a single gulp did not seem to enter into Oldest Son's calculations. Middle Son proposed a game of Risk.
There's nothing like a board game devoted to taking over the world to hold Oldest Son's interest. And so the game began.
I'd had a few scotches myself, but these were the least of my problems. I was tired. It had been a long day Wednesday preparing for the kids' arrival. (After a day of cleaning, Long Suffering Spouse had made an apple pie, two pumpkin pies, pumpkin bread, a tray of brownies and a double batch of sugar cookies. I was bushed after organizing and dog-proofing my corner of the den. But I cleaned an occasional tray and kept Christmas carols playing on the Bose machine. And I did stay loyally awake.) And Thursday had been a long day, too, even before the kids came, because I had to do errands as required while Long Suffering Spouse got the first of the turkeys in the oven (and the potatoes and sweet potatoes and corn and beans and dinner rolls and, of course, her homemade cornmeal stuffing and gravy).
In other words, it was past my bedtime when the Scrabble game ended. I entered into the Risk game (holding South America against all challengers) while eating Ritz crackers, Wheat Thins, Triscuits -- anything to stay awake. Abby played, too, her continuing efforts to induce Oldest Son to leave being studiously ignored. At one point Abby said she would take the keys and drive home with the dog. "I'll come get you when you crash the car," said Oldest Son. "You might make it to the end of the block." Abby has a driver's license -- but apparently has not driven a car since high school.
I have only a vague idea what time it was when Older Daughter arrived. I think it was somewhere around 2:00am Friday morning. There must have been some warning -- a text or something that was not directed to me -- because Abby had hold of Rodent before the front door opened.
My clue that new visitors had arrived came when the little dog began shaking and barking and barking and shaking and growling, all at a very excited, high pitch. Moments later, I heard deeper growling and barking: Cork had come into the house. When I saw him standing in the living room he was shaking, too. I'm not certain whether this shaking was meant to convey hostility or fear or merely curiosity. What it conveyed to me was this: Older Daughter is here. Now maybe I can go to bed.
Younger Daughter was all over the new canine arrival. "Aren't you the cutest thing? Oh, yes, you are?" She'd become acquainted with Cork on a recent trip to Indianapolis.
Oldest Son laughed. "No wonder Rodent is barking. You're being unfaithful to her." Younger Daughter glowered.
"I am not!" she protested. "But Abby has hold of her."
"I don't know," said Abby, playing along, "I think Rodent is shocked at how fickle you are."
Long Suffering Spouse had, by this time, been asleep for at least an hour, maybe two. She'd sat in my recliner in the corner of the den farthest from the noisy Risk game in the dining room and, at some point, passed out. Who could blame her? I merely envied her.
The new dog noise roused Long Suffering Spouse somewhat. She got up and stumbled toward the front of the house, heading for the stairs to our bedroom, passing the dog, passing her son-in-law, passing her newly arrived daughter. Along the way she said something like, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here. Happy Thanksgiving. Good night."
I followed close behind. I was less articulate. "You're here. Good night."
Abby needed only one hand to hold Rodent. With her other hand, she dragged Oldest Son toward the front door. "So nice to see you. What a lovely dog. Good night."
I gather Middle Son stayed a moment or two, but he had a wedding to attend on Friday and needed to be home hours before. Younger Daughter apparently stayed up awhile to get her sister and brother-in-law settled. And to play with the dog of course. But you can't prove it by me.
Long Suffering Spouse and I were out of bed a few hours later to start the second turkey. (You can't have Thanksgiving 2 with leftovers, can you?) I ate. I fell asleep. My mother-in-law came by for a few hours after dinner. I stayed asleep throughout. She told my wife she was worried that I was so tired. I'm not worried. I was exhausted.
I'd like to tell you we spent the rest of the weekend recuperating, but it would not be true. We got Cork and Hank and Older Daughter back on the road to Indianapolis Saturday night. We got back from dropping Youngest Son back at South Janesville College and then from dropping Younger Daughter at her dorm on Sunday afternoon just before dark. It was then time to start looking for all the things we'd squirreled away in order to dog-proof the house. Then we could start the weekend chores. Much of the conversation in the car between Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter concerned how little Older Daughter realized all that we had to do to prepare for her visit.
Don't get me wrong: I really was happy to have the whole family at home this weekend. But, these days, it's a lot of work.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Christmas with Rodent & the Curmudgeon clan -- Part II -- In which Hank and the dog disagree about when to sleep
In our last episode, we introduced Rodent the Shih Tzu (Shih Tzu being Chinese for What The Little Dog Will Do On Your Rug) and how she came to stay at our house despite the Curmudgeon's best efforts....
Today we must begin with a description of the Curmudgeon home. No doubt you picture a spacious McMansion, but the truth is, as it often is, far less grand. The first part of our home was built sometime before World War II -- which, in Chicago at least, usually means before the Great Depression. I won't say that no homes were built in Chicago during the 1930's -- someone would surely contradict me -- but I believe I'm on firm ground in asserting that very few homes were built in our area during that unhappy decade. I don't know exactly when the original structure was built, and I'm not certain about the original floorplan, but I'm pretty sure it was small, a tiny square, two-bedroom Georgian with a single bathroom at the top of the stairs.
At some later time, a kitchen was added off the west end of the house. The kitchen is behind an attached one-car garage. My guess is that the garage was attached at this same time; I'm guessing that this is so because there is no direct access from the garage to the house.
Two more bedrooms were added at this time, too, over the kitchen and the garage. And the original kitchen was reconfigured into a powder room. I'm hoping that some walls were moved at this time because the powder room is just as small as you'd expect; I'm hoping the original kitchen was larger than that.
It may have been at this time, too, that a porch was built off the north end of the house behind the dining room. At some point in the history of the Curmudgeon manse this porch was allegedly converted into a year-round room, with glass sliding doors at the north end. I say allegedly because this room was -- and is -- almost unbearably cold in the winter and stifling in the summer. And we ran heating and cooling vents in there.
But this gets ahead of the story.
If you've followed along so far, in your mind's eye you can see a roughly "L"-shaped house, built in classic Future Tear Down Style, the long part of the "L" being two stories tall and the porch forming the short end.
This was the layout of the house when we acquired it in 1996.
But my wife wanted more room for the kitchen and it occurred to me that we could put a room up behind the kitchen and accomplish this. I suggested another powder room behind the existing. Another designer might have envisioned a wider opening between the existing porch/den and the new room but I figured that the floor might not line up exactly. This turned out to be a very good guess. We put a long closet on the other side of the powder room to make the communication between the new and old additions as narrow as we could; it turned out to be a chore to make even this narrow hallway level where the new and old structures met. The other reason I wanted another powder room was that I was learning, while trying to sell my first house, an unexpanded two-bedroom Georgian into which a third bedroom had been shoehorned, that the lack of a second toilet would cost me something like $50,000 in resale value. My original concept for the addition, therefore, had rows of toilets along both walls, like an airport or movie theater bathroom -- but Long Suffering Spouse talked me out of that.
Eventually.
Our misadventures in building the addition will stretch to multiple chapters in the memoir, and I'm testing your patience, even in this slow, inter-holiday week, by larding in so much description. On with your story! you say and I can only bow my head in acknowledgment of your legitimate demand.
All this description really was to set up the placement of our Christmas visitors. Older Daughter and her husband Hank had the futon in the new addition (for more about how Hank and Older Daughter got the futon, click here) and Rodent, the allegedly paper-trained Shih Tzu, was supposed to sleep in the adjacent new bathroom. Her "puppy pad" was there. Her water dish was there. Her little bed would have been there too, had not Oldest Son and his wife forgotten to bring it. (On St. Stephen's Day, Younger Daughter went out and acquired a puppy bed of our very own. Long Suffering Spouse went with -- and paid for it with our credit card. Oh joy.)
Rodent did sleep in the new bathroom on Thanksgiving night. On the day after Thanksgiving, when Oldest Son and Abby got up at the crack of dawn to leave for Southern California (they had the sleeper sofa in the old den on the other side of the new bathroom), their faithful hound heard them and started whining. And scratching.
This apparently continued the entire time while I was taking Oldest Son and his bride to O'Hare. On the futon in the new addition, Hank found it impossible, for some reason, to sleep through this.
Hank was definitely not pleased to see that the dog had returned for Christmas.
And Rodent had become increasingly insistent about not being cooped up in the new bathroom at night. Rodent does not bark -- not really. It makes an occasional noise that could be likened to the bark of a real dog, though shorter and higher-pitched. But it can make a fair amount of skittering noises on a vinyl-tile floor, and it could bang its head against the bathroom door trying to bounce it open. (She's succeeded more than once.) Although she's a dog who is alone most days in Oldest Son's apartment, Rodent has apparently decided that, in our house, with so many people, she must never be alone. Thus, she protested mightily at all efforts to contain her in the new bathroom. This was alright as long as no one was trying to sleep in the next room; we could, and did, barricade her in the room successfully on the night of the 24th.
But Hank and his wife arrived on the afternoon of the 25th.
Thus, it came to pass that, at about 4:00 a.m. on St. Stephen's Day, Hank dispatched his wife upstairs to get her sister. Older Daughter was more than willing to undertake this mission; the mutt was driving her nuts too. Younger Daughter says her big sister came tromping up the stairs like all three Billy Goats Gruff, shaking her awake and screaming at her to do something about that d*mn dog. Older Daughter says she was very quiet, although insistent that her little sister remove the dog. Since Long Suffering Spouse and I slept through this entire incident, I'm inclined toward Older Daughter's version of events.
Either way, the dog was brought upstairs. Hank went back to sleep.
But Hank may have had his revenge.
I mentioned yesterday that Hank was running a fever. It hit him Sunday afternoon. Like most dogs, Rodent is instinctively drawn to a sick person. She was as attentive to Hank as she could be (trying to make peace as well?), licking his fingers and so forth.
This morning Rodent threw up.
In Younger Daughter's bed.
Oldest Son and Abby come home tonight. Happy Holidays to me!
Today we must begin with a description of the Curmudgeon home. No doubt you picture a spacious McMansion, but the truth is, as it often is, far less grand. The first part of our home was built sometime before World War II -- which, in Chicago at least, usually means before the Great Depression. I won't say that no homes were built in Chicago during the 1930's -- someone would surely contradict me -- but I believe I'm on firm ground in asserting that very few homes were built in our area during that unhappy decade. I don't know exactly when the original structure was built, and I'm not certain about the original floorplan, but I'm pretty sure it was small, a tiny square, two-bedroom Georgian with a single bathroom at the top of the stairs.
At some later time, a kitchen was added off the west end of the house. The kitchen is behind an attached one-car garage. My guess is that the garage was attached at this same time; I'm guessing that this is so because there is no direct access from the garage to the house.
Two more bedrooms were added at this time, too, over the kitchen and the garage. And the original kitchen was reconfigured into a powder room. I'm hoping that some walls were moved at this time because the powder room is just as small as you'd expect; I'm hoping the original kitchen was larger than that.
It may have been at this time, too, that a porch was built off the north end of the house behind the dining room. At some point in the history of the Curmudgeon manse this porch was allegedly converted into a year-round room, with glass sliding doors at the north end. I say allegedly because this room was -- and is -- almost unbearably cold in the winter and stifling in the summer. And we ran heating and cooling vents in there.
But this gets ahead of the story.
If you've followed along so far, in your mind's eye you can see a roughly "L"-shaped house, built in classic Future Tear Down Style, the long part of the "L" being two stories tall and the porch forming the short end.
This was the layout of the house when we acquired it in 1996.
But my wife wanted more room for the kitchen and it occurred to me that we could put a room up behind the kitchen and accomplish this. I suggested another powder room behind the existing. Another designer might have envisioned a wider opening between the existing porch/den and the new room but I figured that the floor might not line up exactly. This turned out to be a very good guess. We put a long closet on the other side of the powder room to make the communication between the new and old additions as narrow as we could; it turned out to be a chore to make even this narrow hallway level where the new and old structures met. The other reason I wanted another powder room was that I was learning, while trying to sell my first house, an unexpanded two-bedroom Georgian into which a third bedroom had been shoehorned, that the lack of a second toilet would cost me something like $50,000 in resale value. My original concept for the addition, therefore, had rows of toilets along both walls, like an airport or movie theater bathroom -- but Long Suffering Spouse talked me out of that.
Eventually.
Our misadventures in building the addition will stretch to multiple chapters in the memoir, and I'm testing your patience, even in this slow, inter-holiday week, by larding in so much description. On with your story! you say and I can only bow my head in acknowledgment of your legitimate demand.
All this description really was to set up the placement of our Christmas visitors. Older Daughter and her husband Hank had the futon in the new addition (for more about how Hank and Older Daughter got the futon, click here) and Rodent, the allegedly paper-trained Shih Tzu, was supposed to sleep in the adjacent new bathroom. Her "puppy pad" was there. Her water dish was there. Her little bed would have been there too, had not Oldest Son and his wife forgotten to bring it. (On St. Stephen's Day, Younger Daughter went out and acquired a puppy bed of our very own. Long Suffering Spouse went with -- and paid for it with our credit card. Oh joy.)
Rodent did sleep in the new bathroom on Thanksgiving night. On the day after Thanksgiving, when Oldest Son and Abby got up at the crack of dawn to leave for Southern California (they had the sleeper sofa in the old den on the other side of the new bathroom), their faithful hound heard them and started whining. And scratching.
This apparently continued the entire time while I was taking Oldest Son and his bride to O'Hare. On the futon in the new addition, Hank found it impossible, for some reason, to sleep through this.
Hank was definitely not pleased to see that the dog had returned for Christmas.
And Rodent had become increasingly insistent about not being cooped up in the new bathroom at night. Rodent does not bark -- not really. It makes an occasional noise that could be likened to the bark of a real dog, though shorter and higher-pitched. But it can make a fair amount of skittering noises on a vinyl-tile floor, and it could bang its head against the bathroom door trying to bounce it open. (She's succeeded more than once.) Although she's a dog who is alone most days in Oldest Son's apartment, Rodent has apparently decided that, in our house, with so many people, she must never be alone. Thus, she protested mightily at all efforts to contain her in the new bathroom. This was alright as long as no one was trying to sleep in the next room; we could, and did, barricade her in the room successfully on the night of the 24th.
But Hank and his wife arrived on the afternoon of the 25th.
Thus, it came to pass that, at about 4:00 a.m. on St. Stephen's Day, Hank dispatched his wife upstairs to get her sister. Older Daughter was more than willing to undertake this mission; the mutt was driving her nuts too. Younger Daughter says her big sister came tromping up the stairs like all three Billy Goats Gruff, shaking her awake and screaming at her to do something about that d*mn dog. Older Daughter says she was very quiet, although insistent that her little sister remove the dog. Since Long Suffering Spouse and I slept through this entire incident, I'm inclined toward Older Daughter's version of events.
Either way, the dog was brought upstairs. Hank went back to sleep.
But Hank may have had his revenge.
I mentioned yesterday that Hank was running a fever. It hit him Sunday afternoon. Like most dogs, Rodent is instinctively drawn to a sick person. She was as attentive to Hank as she could be (trying to make peace as well?), licking his fingers and so forth.
This morning Rodent threw up.
In Younger Daughter's bed.
Oldest Son and Abby come home tonight. Happy Holidays to me!
Monday, December 27, 2010
Christmas with Rodent & the Curmudgeon clan -- Part I -- In which every dog shall have its way
It's almost over now, as I write this early Monday afternoon. My son-in-law Hank is still at the house, battling a 102° fever while his wife visits her Abuela and then a high school friend. Older Daughter is still mad at her husband because he had to sing at his Indianapolis church on Christmas Eve and she couldn't come to Nochebuena dinner here in Chicago. (If you want the whole story, click here.) Now she's mad at him for being sick. You'd think that a nurse would realize that being sick is not exactly a voluntary thing... but that's beside the point, I suppose.
At some point, probably this afternoon, Older Daughter will relent and take her husband home. My Long Suffering Spouse will begin fumigating the den. And we'll be down to only one house guest. If you guessed that this is a reference to Younger Daughter, you're wrong. I don't count Younger Daughter as a house guest, not when she's just home from college for break.
No, our remaining guest is Oldest Son's dog.
Oldest Son and his wife Abby were here for Nochebuena; I took them from dinner straight to O'Hare so they could get on a plane for San Antonio to spend Christmas with Abby's family. Their dog was supposed to go, too.
At least that's what I was told originally.
This has been a busy year for Oldest Son. He got married, got a dog, and bought a car, in that order, all this year. Shortly after Oldest Son and Abby got the car, they came out to visit -- with the dog.
The dog is tiny, hardly worthy of the title 'dog,' really. They have a different name for it, but I call it "Rodent," since it is much more rodent-sized than canine-sized.
By breed, the dog is a Shih Tzu. The Shih Tzu is a Chinese lap dog of ancient lineage. It was a favorite of high nobility, even emperors, because of its diminutive size and long, silky fur. In an ancient Chinese dialect, Shih Tzu means "What The Little Dog Will Do On Your Rug."
When we first met the little creature, Long Suffering Spouse and I asked how Oldest Son and Abby were going to tend to its basic needs, since both of them work long days (and Oldest Son frequently travels on business). How was it going to get outside to do what doggies do?
It's a feature in chic, urban neighborhoods: Well-dressed, well-educated young people, walking well-groomed dogs -- and carrying baggies or plastic grocery bags and scoops or little shovels for when the dog does what a dog must. Pickpockets take a terrible risk in such neighborhoods: You might get a yuppie's wallet. On the other hand, you might get a yuppie dog's latest souvenir.
Oldest Son agreed he and Abby wouldn't have time to walk the little creature. She'd probably freeze solid on a typical Chicago winter morning anyway, he told me. Therefore, they'd "paper train" the dog and leave it all at that.
Naturally, newspapers are no longer used by the young people even for paper training. Oldest Son pretends not to know what a newspaper is, anyway. (He has a whole routine worked up about 'someone putting the Internet on paper.') Instead, Oldest Son and Abby have bought "puppy pads," absorbent squares of treated paper (I guess). They set out one of these for Rodent each morning before leaving for work.
They claim this works for them and for Rodent. I was less enthused. I was a tad queasy about the set-up, truth to tell. The arrangement has a high 'ick' factor, so far as I was concerned.
And in our initial visit with the little creature, I made it quite clear to Oldest Son and Abby that I didn't want any animals in my house that aren't housebroken. Period. End of discussion. Don't bother moving to reconsider.
That's what I said.
Now we get to Thanksgiving. Oldest Son and Abby had plans to leave the morning after Thanksgiving to fly to Southern California for the Notre Dame game.
I didn't get a chance to write about this at the time because of the appellate emergency I was dealing with, but because I knew that Oldest Son and Abby would be staying with us on Thanksgiving night, as the big day approached, I began asking who was going to be taking care of their little dog. At one point, fairly early on, Oldest Son assured me that a friend was doing the honors. But, as the day approached, I began to pick up subtle signals that a hitch might have developed in the dogsitting plans. I took each and every opportunity to reiterate, in no uncertain terms, in my best James Earl Jones Voice of Authority, that no way and no how was that little mutt to cross my threshold.
I happened to be looking out the living room window on Thanksgiving when Oldest Son and Abby pulled up and got out of the car... with the little dog.
I was angry. I was ticked off. I was, you should pardon the expression, pissed.
The friend couldn't dogsit after all, Oldest Son explained (after I calmed down enough to ask). That's when Younger Daughter stepped in an volunteered to look after Rodent. She'd gone over to Oldest Son's apartment before to watch the dog, earlier in the football season, in fact, when Oldest Son and Abby made a day trip to South Bend.
And Oldest Son made a show of surrendering the apartment keys to his sister, as if we'd really let her go back there alone for the weekend just to keep the dog out of the house.
(Well, I might have -- but Long Suffering Spouse would have overruled me on that one.)
Besides, offered Oldest Son, trying to smooth the troubled waters, he'd brought a supply of "doggie diapers" so that Rodent wouldn't leave behind any unwanted Thanksgiving leftovers.
No, I'd never heard of doggie diapers either. They have an opening for the tail, but otherwise look like standard issue Huggies. And just like paper diapers for little humans, sometimes they work better than others.
Somehow, we got through Thanksgiving weekend. I was still cranked out of shape, but who listens to old Dad anyway?
The one thing I made clear to Oldest Son and Abby upon their return was that this was our one and only foray into the dogsitting business. This was an imposition, I said, and it was rude, and it was never, ever to happen again. I looked to Long Suffering Spouse for reinforcement -- present a united front! that's the first thing they teach in the parenting correspondence course -- and Long Suffering Spouse nodded gravely and began to speak: "Your father is right," she began... and then she put in a loophole big enough to drive a kennel full of Shih Tzus through. "You should have asked us," she said. "You can't leave the dog with us without asking first."
"And you know what the answer will be," I said, trying to recapture the advantage. Even little Rodent saw through this feeble effort.
As I mentioned at the outset of this essay, the cover story for Christmas was that the dog would be flying to San Antonio with Oldest Son and Abby. Abby's twin sister had bought a pocket-sized pooch of her own and Abby was eager for Rodent to meet its "cousin." I supported this plan wholeheartedly. "Yes, this sounds like a great idea," I said to one and all and, at first, it seemed as if this might actually work out. I heard they even bought a carrier in which the little mongrel could travel.
But, once again, as the big day approached, I began to sense a disturbance in the Force. Suspicious now, I was watching Younger Daughter to see if she betrayed any guilty knowledge. Thus, a few days before Christmas, I knew what was about to happen when Oldest Son called the house. "You talk to him," I told Long Suffering Spouse. "If he's calling to ask me, you know what my answer will be."
I still think that, despite my vigilance, Younger Daughter must have found a way to grease the skids with Long Suffering Spouse. My wife gave in too easily. Younger Daughter materialized at my wife's side when the call from her brother came in, too. Younger Daughter really loves that dog and I'll bet you any sum you care to wager Oldest Son tipped her off as to when he'd be calling.
Then came my moment of ultimate humiliation: Long Suffering Spouse handed me the phone. "He has to ask you, too," she said.
"What happened to the plan of bringing the dog with?" I asked forlornly.
"Ah," said Oldest Son, "Um. We found out that you have to have a certificate of good health from a vet before she can fly and we found out too late to get one."
I said nothing.
"And we found out that we'd have to pay an extra $150 both ways for her, even though the dog carrier would fit under our seats."
I said nothing.
"So, anyway, Dad," Oldest Son stammered, "can we leave the dog at your house when we go to San Antonio?"
I looked at Younger Daughter's pleading face. I looked at Long Suffering Spouse -- and her expression was just as pleading. "I suppose this is the part where I'm supposed to graciously acquiesce, right?" My wife nodded. Younger Daughter held her breath.
"Oh, alright," I said, defeated. "But I don't want any Christmas Miracles in my shoes," I began... and Long Suffering Spouse snatched the phone back to seek reassurances that the dog had mastered paper training in the month since Thanksgiving.
Of course it has, said Oldest Son.
I went back to the den and fell asleep in my chair watching the news: Mr. Irrelevant at home with the family.
In our next episode: You only brought two doggie diapers -- for a five day stay?
At some point, probably this afternoon, Older Daughter will relent and take her husband home. My Long Suffering Spouse will begin fumigating the den. And we'll be down to only one house guest. If you guessed that this is a reference to Younger Daughter, you're wrong. I don't count Younger Daughter as a house guest, not when she's just home from college for break.
No, our remaining guest is Oldest Son's dog.
Oldest Son and his wife Abby were here for Nochebuena; I took them from dinner straight to O'Hare so they could get on a plane for San Antonio to spend Christmas with Abby's family. Their dog was supposed to go, too.
At least that's what I was told originally.
This has been a busy year for Oldest Son. He got married, got a dog, and bought a car, in that order, all this year. Shortly after Oldest Son and Abby got the car, they came out to visit -- with the dog.
The dog is tiny, hardly worthy of the title 'dog,' really. They have a different name for it, but I call it "Rodent," since it is much more rodent-sized than canine-sized.
By breed, the dog is a Shih Tzu. The Shih Tzu is a Chinese lap dog of ancient lineage. It was a favorite of high nobility, even emperors, because of its diminutive size and long, silky fur. In an ancient Chinese dialect, Shih Tzu means "What The Little Dog Will Do On Your Rug."
When we first met the little creature, Long Suffering Spouse and I asked how Oldest Son and Abby were going to tend to its basic needs, since both of them work long days (and Oldest Son frequently travels on business). How was it going to get outside to do what doggies do?
It's a feature in chic, urban neighborhoods: Well-dressed, well-educated young people, walking well-groomed dogs -- and carrying baggies or plastic grocery bags and scoops or little shovels for when the dog does what a dog must. Pickpockets take a terrible risk in such neighborhoods: You might get a yuppie's wallet. On the other hand, you might get a yuppie dog's latest souvenir.
Oldest Son agreed he and Abby wouldn't have time to walk the little creature. She'd probably freeze solid on a typical Chicago winter morning anyway, he told me. Therefore, they'd "paper train" the dog and leave it all at that.
Naturally, newspapers are no longer used by the young people even for paper training. Oldest Son pretends not to know what a newspaper is, anyway. (He has a whole routine worked up about 'someone putting the Internet on paper.') Instead, Oldest Son and Abby have bought "puppy pads," absorbent squares of treated paper (I guess). They set out one of these for Rodent each morning before leaving for work.
They claim this works for them and for Rodent. I was less enthused. I was a tad queasy about the set-up, truth to tell. The arrangement has a high 'ick' factor, so far as I was concerned.
And in our initial visit with the little creature, I made it quite clear to Oldest Son and Abby that I didn't want any animals in my house that aren't housebroken. Period. End of discussion. Don't bother moving to reconsider.
That's what I said.
Now we get to Thanksgiving. Oldest Son and Abby had plans to leave the morning after Thanksgiving to fly to Southern California for the Notre Dame game.
I didn't get a chance to write about this at the time because of the appellate emergency I was dealing with, but because I knew that Oldest Son and Abby would be staying with us on Thanksgiving night, as the big day approached, I began asking who was going to be taking care of their little dog. At one point, fairly early on, Oldest Son assured me that a friend was doing the honors. But, as the day approached, I began to pick up subtle signals that a hitch might have developed in the dogsitting plans. I took each and every opportunity to reiterate, in no uncertain terms, in my best James Earl Jones Voice of Authority, that no way and no how was that little mutt to cross my threshold.
I happened to be looking out the living room window on Thanksgiving when Oldest Son and Abby pulled up and got out of the car... with the little dog.
I was angry. I was ticked off. I was, you should pardon the expression, pissed.
The friend couldn't dogsit after all, Oldest Son explained (after I calmed down enough to ask). That's when Younger Daughter stepped in an volunteered to look after Rodent. She'd gone over to Oldest Son's apartment before to watch the dog, earlier in the football season, in fact, when Oldest Son and Abby made a day trip to South Bend.
And Oldest Son made a show of surrendering the apartment keys to his sister, as if we'd really let her go back there alone for the weekend just to keep the dog out of the house.
(Well, I might have -- but Long Suffering Spouse would have overruled me on that one.)
Besides, offered Oldest Son, trying to smooth the troubled waters, he'd brought a supply of "doggie diapers" so that Rodent wouldn't leave behind any unwanted Thanksgiving leftovers.
No, I'd never heard of doggie diapers either. They have an opening for the tail, but otherwise look like standard issue Huggies. And just like paper diapers for little humans, sometimes they work better than others.
Somehow, we got through Thanksgiving weekend. I was still cranked out of shape, but who listens to old Dad anyway?
The one thing I made clear to Oldest Son and Abby upon their return was that this was our one and only foray into the dogsitting business. This was an imposition, I said, and it was rude, and it was never, ever to happen again. I looked to Long Suffering Spouse for reinforcement -- present a united front! that's the first thing they teach in the parenting correspondence course -- and Long Suffering Spouse nodded gravely and began to speak: "Your father is right," she began... and then she put in a loophole big enough to drive a kennel full of Shih Tzus through. "You should have asked us," she said. "You can't leave the dog with us without asking first."
"And you know what the answer will be," I said, trying to recapture the advantage. Even little Rodent saw through this feeble effort.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
As I mentioned at the outset of this essay, the cover story for Christmas was that the dog would be flying to San Antonio with Oldest Son and Abby. Abby's twin sister had bought a pocket-sized pooch of her own and Abby was eager for Rodent to meet its "cousin." I supported this plan wholeheartedly. "Yes, this sounds like a great idea," I said to one and all and, at first, it seemed as if this might actually work out. I heard they even bought a carrier in which the little mongrel could travel.
But, once again, as the big day approached, I began to sense a disturbance in the Force. Suspicious now, I was watching Younger Daughter to see if she betrayed any guilty knowledge. Thus, a few days before Christmas, I knew what was about to happen when Oldest Son called the house. "You talk to him," I told Long Suffering Spouse. "If he's calling to ask me, you know what my answer will be."
I still think that, despite my vigilance, Younger Daughter must have found a way to grease the skids with Long Suffering Spouse. My wife gave in too easily. Younger Daughter materialized at my wife's side when the call from her brother came in, too. Younger Daughter really loves that dog and I'll bet you any sum you care to wager Oldest Son tipped her off as to when he'd be calling.
Then came my moment of ultimate humiliation: Long Suffering Spouse handed me the phone. "He has to ask you, too," she said.
"What happened to the plan of bringing the dog with?" I asked forlornly.
"Ah," said Oldest Son, "Um. We found out that you have to have a certificate of good health from a vet before she can fly and we found out too late to get one."
I said nothing.
"And we found out that we'd have to pay an extra $150 both ways for her, even though the dog carrier would fit under our seats."
I said nothing.
"So, anyway, Dad," Oldest Son stammered, "can we leave the dog at your house when we go to San Antonio?"
I looked at Younger Daughter's pleading face. I looked at Long Suffering Spouse -- and her expression was just as pleading. "I suppose this is the part where I'm supposed to graciously acquiesce, right?" My wife nodded. Younger Daughter held her breath.
"Oh, alright," I said, defeated. "But I don't want any Christmas Miracles in my shoes," I began... and Long Suffering Spouse snatched the phone back to seek reassurances that the dog had mastered paper training in the month since Thanksgiving.
Of course it has, said Oldest Son.
I went back to the den and fell asleep in my chair watching the news: Mr. Irrelevant at home with the family.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
In our next episode: You only brought two doggie diapers -- for a five day stay?
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