Critical Mess

If age is just a number and if you should never lose the child (or pup) inside you, then why do some folks expect older dogs to lie around in a stupor waiting for the inevitable?  I, for one, refuse to go gently into that goodnight, which of course means that I will continue to push Mom and Dad to the brink of insanity at every opportunity.

If they are enamored of a particular throw rug, I will see that it gets dragged out the door and into the rear yard for a thorough airing out.  If left alone in the garage, I will dutifully tidy up by rearranging every tool, container, gadget and piece of equipment (especially those that are tagged, “Flap, Do Not Touch”).  They have only to leave the family room to find it “redecorated” upon their return.  And when I take a drink, I try hard to slobber half the water over a 25 foot circumference around my dish.  I could, of course, refrain from doing all of the above and receive the customary “good boy” reward (yawn).  But I prefer to run on the wild side in order to get my companions’ stagnant blood moving around a bit.  It’s good for their health and, therefore I misbehave for their benefit.

So, today I decided to test their find the tipping point of their reach critical mass by creating a critical mess.  They left the door between the garage and the house wide if they were inviting me to raise hell.  I didn’t disappoint them.  I managed to drag a 50 pound bag of fertilizer into the house while they were upstairs.  Once I had the bag inside, I opened it and dragged it through the house, spilling its contents in every room of the ground floor.  It was so much fun that I repeated it with two more bags.

Mom and Dad, smelling the distinctive odor of a cattle ranch, came running downstairs to find me smiling, ankle deep in cow dung.  Their reaction was classic.  Dad fell silent, as his body prepared to involuntarily explode.  Mom looked at the mess philosophically.  She calmly said to me, “Flap, my poor baby, you’ve obviously become so senile that you’re confused about what you’re doing.  Now, please help Mom clean this up, and tell me you’ll never do it again.”  Perhaps it was Mom’s cool reaction combined with my outrageous behavior that caused Dad to snap.  I don’t know, I’m just a dog.  Suffice it to say that he is now lying comfortably under heavy sedation.

I visited Dad a few minutes ago.  He was on his bed, drooling and mumbling.  I think he murmured something about me taking years away from his life.  It’s ironic, because I seem to be feeling younger.  Dad just needs to chill.  Now I’m next to Mom with my chin in her lap, and she’s saying “Good boy, Flap”.  I guess Dad heard her because my sensitive ears detected an agonizing scream from his bedroom.  I think I may delay the next round of mischief for…oh…a day or so.


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