Since my previous blogs have not gone viral nor resulted in the fame and fortune for which I had hoped, I have decided to follow the Maggie rule and write about a subject of which I am more intimately acquainted. With that in mind, I have decided to forego any feelings of embarrassment or inadequacy to admit that I have recently become the subject of 24-hour surveillance. Lest you think I am wearing an ankle bracelet or being surveyed by Alexa let me assure you that I am speaking of an up close and personal observer whom I have not been able to shake since he moved into my own home and almost immediately took charge of my life.
RODNEY DANGERFIELD IN MY OWN HOUSE
He has no respect for my privacy and feels no compunction about following me into the bathroom and even walking into the shower at will. He violently objects to my physical contact with others, even my own wife. His impertinence extends to total disregard for the rights to my own property. For example, I am now forbidden to sit in my favorite arm chair, and he seems to find joy in destroying various objects around the house including my shoes. When not engaged in some other nefarious activity he is usually indolent, but when awake he has no compunction about leaping onto my bed and burying his slobbering head in my pillow. He even sees fit to leap onto my lap while I am quietly reading which does not work out well since he is much too large to be considered a lap dog. The accompanying slurp across my face by that wet tongue I also consider to be ungenteel. His assumption of control of the house has been extended to include the surrounding yard and gardens. In addition to his relentless efforts to poison my shrubbery he tracks in large quantities of his excavations which he deposits on the carpet in spite of Barb’s strong admonitions.
WHAT ABOUT MY RIGHTS?
In this country we all are endowed with the right to come and go as we please unless we are under some legally determined prohibitions, but this guy insists on accompanying me wherever I go. He is possessed of some satanically inspired sixth sense which allows him to know when I plan to leave the house, and I find him perched in the front passenger seat before I even get one foot in the door. Last Sunday as is usually the case he managed to worm his way into the car as I was leaving for church in spite of my best efforts to slip away. I did manage to lock him in the car to prevent his following me into church and creating an embarrassing scene however; as I prepared to leave after the service he managed to escape and bolted in through the front door headed for the sanctuary. Fortunately, he was intercepted by a fellow parishioner before he was able to reach the communion table.
IT GETS WORSE
The church incident, although some might call it blasphemous, is only one of a series of embarrassing situations initiated by my so-called friend Floyd, the most recent of which has become known as the IHOP caper. I must confess that I have a strong if not pathological affinity for pancakes, and I believe that with a lifetime of experience in the matter it is not inappropriate for me to assume the title of connoisseur. In my search for the ultimate pancake, I have found the excellent reputation of the International House for Pancakes is well deserved (this is not a paid advertisement) and was pleased when a facility was opened in our small town.
It was only my second visit to the new IHOP and as usual my nemesis was with me. Barb and I were seated by a window with a view of Floyd starring directly at us from the car, obviously coveting my pancake as is his habit with any food of which I partake. Once again as we were leaving I was unable to contain him and he was out of the car in a flash headed for the IHOP front door.
Fortunately, the restaurant entrance leads into a vestibule with a second door which he was unable to penetrate and he was contained by a pleasant young lady who immediately sensed my plight. He was not to be denied his pancake and was determined to make a scene as I struggled to get him out. I managed to drag him by his collar out on the sidewalk after he shifted to a passive -aggressive strategy of rolling over on his back and refusing to move. As I was attempting to get him up he managed to slip his head through the collar and headed back to the door.
Since Floyd, due to his behavior, could never be misidentified as a service dog, even had he been wearing one of those sweaters so designating him, it was clear that he would not be welcomed in IHOP begging for pancakes. Consequently, having been outwitted at every turn it was imperative that drastic measures must be taken. With that in mind, I courageously ignored my physician’s advice to avoid heavy lifting, picked him up and carried him to the car. For those who may be concerned rest assured that to date I am tolerating the pain with only conservative treatment; although a lessor man would undoubtedly have required hospitalization.
NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED
Those of you who recall my previous blog concerning misadventures with Floyd may remember his previous involvement in another plot to inflict serious injuries or worse. That assault resulted in a near amputation of my right ear which is just now finally healed. When one considers all that has been done for this animal including liberation from confinement and possible execution, it does not seem unreasonable to expect him to follow a few simple house rules, and evidence some concern for the health and welfare of his rescuers. To date there is no sign of compliance or of motivation to change his ways.
I SURRENDER
You must be wondering why in the world would I allow such a monster to continue to inhabit my home. The answer to that question is complex, but mostly evolves from Floyd’s expertise in carrying out false flag operations. He has perfected the use of those big brown eyes to convey messages of adoration which along with his plaintiff whines have captivated Barb and resulted in her having fallen hopelessly in love. He even works on me for approbation and acceptance. As a matter of fact he is now lying at my feet as I write this expose’e. When I look down upon him he catches my eye with that cherubic look professing undying love, and lapses into his “I will never be bad again Shtick”. He arises and proceeds to go through his entire repertoire as follows: he gets up, places his head on my leg, I scratch his ears, he lies down, rolls over on his back, and whines like a little puppy wanting to have it’s belly scratched. I am sucked in and realize that he is much better at what he does than I am at what I do, and I am stuck with him, besides the dog pound has a strict no return policy.