Have you ever had one of those days where you just shouldn’t have gotten out of bed? Well, yesterday was not one of those days…
But it could have been, if I had let it; dad had been making some crazy noises the night before, something about leaving me at home and taking Marco on a bicycle ride down at the River Trail. They say God laughs at the plans of men, well, so apparently does the Charlie. Especially when this gave me the perfect opportunity to get into the garage and jack with dad’s rear derailleur, basically rendering the bike inoperable.
So dad had no choice but to leave the bike and instead take me out to the Spillway to flounce around in the water; winner/winner, chicken dinner. After a stop at Gary’s to say “howdy” to Huck and CoCo, we pointed the Subie west. Dad had a blanket laid out across the back of the car to contain the results of my muddy exuberance, but he should know by now that the Queen sits when and where she wants, and I wanted to be in the front.
And then the back. And then back in the front. Then back in the back; are we seeing a pattern here?
Then we arrived at the Spillway; the recent rains had it up and rolling, but better yet was the icy run-off that was making the trail slimy with mud. It turns out that “icy run-off” is aptly named, because when that cold water hits my feet, it causes me to go into a Bapticostal “running fit”, charging up and down the trail like a dog that’s lost her mind.
Some call this a case of the zoomies, but there is a technical term for it as well, FRAPS. Frenetic Random Activity Periods, a condition for which we pitties are well known, and feared as well. And justifiably so, because if dad doesn’t watch himself carefully, I have been known to inflict soft tissue damage when I take him out at the knees on one of my strafing runs.
After numerous battles over The Most Important Stick in the World at which a always emerged victorious(do you think I would be telling about it if I lost? The victors always write the history books), we loaded my muddy self up for the trip back to the Casa del Whackos. There the carnage continued, with Titus and I re-enacting the First Battle of Bitey Mouth while the other inmates widely remained neutral and remained in the Demilitarized Zone, and placed bets on the outcome. After a temporary truce was agreed upon and it was declared by Toby to be a split decision, we all decided to strategically plop our goofy selves on mom’s clean sheets, leaving dad to contort his portly frame amongst us like a game of midget Tetris.
And that’s how daybreak found us this morning. At least that’s what I hear, as we’re still exactly where we were last night, still out like the bedroom lights should be; the Queen is not prepared to arise and wreak havoc at this ungodly hour, no matter what dad has to say about it.
Its always a party at the Casa!
