Last Wednesday. "Field trip" to Port Angeles for dentist and urologist appointments (Mom and and Dad, respectively.). I had to stop at Safeway to get gas. As we're pulling out of the Safeway parking lot, a scrubby, gray pigeon walks across the pavement in front of us. Dad sees it.
"Ohhhhh............look at that poor ole' pigeon!" (Remember Poor Ole Horse? What's up with Dad assuming every animal he sees is 1. poor, and 2. old????)
Anyway, I ignore the pigeon comment, thinking it's just one of Dad's random observations.
Of course, I'm wrong.
Somehow this "poor ole" pigeon magically, amazingly, and completely illogically segues to Dad's "dog that he's never going to have."
So.................woefully..............with the pain of every dogless dog owner whining and trembling in his 94 year old voice, "I need my own dog." (Could you hear it? Could you hear the almost-whimper in that simple little statement, cuz, trust me, it WAS there.
I said nothing.
Mom, on the other hand, piped right in with, "I want a little dog that will curl up in my lap."
Oh thanks Mom.
I still said nothing.
Dad, on the other hand, though he didn't understand anything Mom had just said, came immediately back (and, I might add, somewhat defiantly) with, "You know...................I don't care what anybody says. If some poor ole' (dang! There it is again!) homeless dog shows up at our door............I'm taking it in. [pause] I don't care how flea-bitten it is!"
I said nothing.
Dad was looking at me, waiting for me to say something, which I didn't. Finally, when he couldn't stand it any longer, he swiped my arm with his hand, "What do you think about that?"
And I'm thinking, ohmygod, is he goading me? Is he? Is he honestly goading me into a confrontation over this ridiculous topic.....again??? He is! My father is GOADING me! And I am determined to NOT get drawn into another discussion in which he and I beat another poor-ole-dog-that-doesn't-even-exist-and-will-never-be into the ground. But............he's still staring at me, waiting.....
Time and distance are on my side. By this time, I'm pulling into the handicapped parking space at Mom's dentist's office. I park. I get out to retrieve Mom's walker from the back of the Jeep. I get Mom out of the car, help her into the building. I walk back to the car, where Dad is waiting. I get back into the car, wondering if he's still in goad-mode.
I strap on my seatbelt, start the car, back out of the parking space, and head for the urologist's office. Dad begins to speak, "Well.................." And all I can think is, oh no, here we go. I think I might have even whispered it, knowing full-well Dad wouldn't hear it.
I wait for what I fear is coming next.
".........is Mom out of cottage cheese?"
God bless the short-term memory of the elderly.
I bet he didn't forget what he was talking about - I bet you won one! I also bet you will never name a dog blueberry, or bananya (well that one's kind of fun actually) or cottage cheese.
ReplyDeleteAnd my mother ALWAYS said "poor old...." but it was always about a person. I'm absolutely sure that person was sometimes me, when I was out of earshot. It was a statement akin to her: "She has a real pretty face" which was code for "what an unattractive woman."