The Charlie Bravo Story

Revolving Door

Dad here; another Sunday morning that the inmates continue to use their passive aggressiveness to exhibit their total dominance of the Casa.

First, they want out. But they expect me to wait at the back door until they finish doing whatever it is that they do that involves circling the exact same spot for an eternity, then going elsewhere to drain the plumbing. Well, that’s not going to happen; I know this because I consulted yesterday with my psychic friend, and for 3.99 a minute, you would think that Madame Cleo would have mentioned something about such a thing.

So I stumble back to bed only to find Marco still hiding beneath the covers. He is far too entitled to brave the horrors of wet grass at such an ungodly hour, choosing instead to do his hunching and quivering where he is more comfortable and leaving his hard little Tootsie Rolls in remote locations within the confines of the Casa. No wonder that he’s so grouchy at times; you would be as well if your turds were the consistency of cured concrete.

Anyway; somehow, Charlie and MacDuff know exactly how long it takes me to get from the door to the bed. It is at the precise instant that I finish ousting Marco from my spot that they raise their voices to the heavens in supplication, demanding immediate re-entry. Nope. Not this time. I was not put on this earth to simply be a doorman for dogs; they can wait. It’s not going to kill them to stay outside for just a bit, and they can make themselves useful for once by keeping the hummingbirds at bay.

So, I attempt to go back to sleep as the charking and barking out back reaches it’s crescendo.
I have not reached my advanced age without learning some key skills that help me keep my sanity; one such talent is “selective hearing”. Unfortunately, a life skill that I haven’t perfected is “selective feeling”, and Mom’s cold foot is impetus to rise and once again, subject myself to the will of the inmates.

But my abasement was not yet complete. Although Charlie and MacDuff were waiting in triumph at the back door, Titus had wandered off and was ambling around the yard doing Titus-related things, and Satan himself can’t convince that big ox to increase his speed even a whit. As a matter of fact, his pace actually slows exponentially as he approaches the back door, as if the edibles are just kicking in and he’s envisioning himself wading through cold molasses. And even when he eventually arrives, his journey is not yet over; he just stands there staring at me. “What, I’m supposed to come inside now?”

So, they’re all back in, and I can finally relax, right? Wrong; Mia the Spazcrobat had grown tired of waiting. She had jumped the fence and was loudly demanding entry at the FRONT door. This prompts yet another trudging trip across the barren wasteland of laminate flooring to the Kingdom of Perpetual Humiliation. Then my buddy Danno calls concerning a motorcycle ride to go on a mission of mercy for a friend involved in a horrible accident, and another day has begun.

They say that there’s no rest for the wicked; I just didn’t think that I was this wicked.

We be of one blood, ye and I.

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