It appears that dad is going to need another operation, and this one might be doozy; he has been searching the World Wide Web for surgeons that might possibly be willing to attempt this daring new procedure, but so far has been unsuccessful.
Compounding this issue is the fact that, in addition to finding a surgical team that will take on this case and also accept his insurance, he also needs to find a suitable donor; as most transplanted organs expand or contract to accommodate their particulate recipients, it is very important that this particular organ be as similar to his own in size and color as is humanely possible, as to not draw undue attention. Mom is already uncomfortable enough with the possible social and personal ramifications of this procedure as it is, and her acceptance is critical to dad’s recovery. So, brace yourselves, here comes the bad news, and it ain’t pretty:
Dad needs a new hand.
Obviously the two he has are not enough, as there are multiple inmates that require his immediate attention the instant we realize that his breathing has changed and arising is imminent. Max is the first, creeping up onto his chest and peering into his face; as if waking up to the presence of a penetrating glare and a hairy Sam Elliot-worthy mustache is not off-putting enough, I begin using my impressive black probocis to ensure that the snooze button is not a viable option.
So, two hands, two dogs, so far not a problem.
Then Mia decides that she needs immediate validation as well; since Katana arrived, the Milk Gods have been VERY good to her, endowing her with an impressive milk bar that she feels that she has to show off to dad every morning, up close and personal, by standing on him until he CPO(commences petting operations).
In the Common Core math of the Casa del Whackos, 2+3=-1, and Max the Terminally Grumpy is the first to voice his displeasure at being neglected. This only serves to alert Echo that party time has started and she is missing out on the festivities, then mom just HAS to bring the puppy into the equation, and before you know it, anarchy reigns supreme.
So, where to surgically implant this extra hand? Dad has some ideas, but mom is lobbying for his right shoulder, as he already has an affinity for patting himself on the back; my vote is for his left ribcage, as he will be able to give me pats while driving, texting, sleeping, etc. Zach and Alex are both hoping for the center of dad’s chest, in the hopes that it will have the ability to clamp across his mouth before he has the opportunity to say something totally inappropriate and embarassing; this is a chronic condition with which he suffers, known to the layman as VD; verbal diarrhea.
I personally will veto the chest suggestion, as that hand would get so much action it wouldn’t have time to perform it’s assigned duty of spreading the lovin’s around between the inmates of the Casa!