The darkest hour is always just before dawn, but even through the inky blackness, we can detect movement along the perimeter. The Marcoterrorist is up to his usual tactics, using the volume of mom’s lumberjack activities(does OSHA know that she operates a sawmill at night? Is that even legal?) to cover the sound of his stealthy approach as he probes our defenses in search of a way of attack.
By our defenses, I am implying that we have them, but instead of the concertina and barricades that one would expect to see protecting a resource as valuable as dad, we have the equivalent of two hairy speed bumps. Ajax and I would have no problem stopping the chigger should we simply roll over on him, but that would involve a very complicated procedure involving coordinating troop mobilization, loading of tactical nuclear weapons, and simultaneously entering identical launch codes.
And that’s just to wake up.
So Micro Polo eases his way around and over the inert opposition and into position to launch his attack. His first target is always dad’s nose; at first we questioned such a tactical decision, as he often sleeps in close proximity to other unprotected targets of opportunity, but obviously considers such easy pickings as low hanging fruit, as it were, and well beneath him as a master infiltrator.
So the nose it is.
When a Gila Monster attacks, it doesn’t inject it’s venom like a snake through needle-like fangs, but instead latches on with its powerful jaws and gnaws it’s victims flesh into a bloody pulp which allows the venom to enter the bloodstream through the Gila’s gooey saliva. Marco has obviously been watching the Discovery Channel, as he has taken this technique and added it to his arsenal, along with dragging his hardware indiscriminately across dad’s face as he mounts his attack. This is NOT how you want to start your day, and you can quote me on that; dad’s sputtering and spitting is as effective an alarm clock as any sound of a dog yarking.
And then there’s that breath; I won’t say it’s “bad”, it’s just “different”. It took a while for me to put my paw on it, but it reminds me of day old shellfish; you know, right before it goes bad, where it’s juuuust started to get that “sweet” undertone that signifies that you might want to go ahead and tie off the trash bag and get it outside even though its only half full, as things are fixing to get real up in here if its allowed to ferment any further. Ajax has a totally different issue; his breath is just fine, until mom brings home his favorite treat, cows hooves which he absolutely worships. All is bearable until he decides to join the fray, and dad says he smells like he’s getting exfoliated by a glue factory.
So now we have been banished to frolic in the backyard, dad observing the mayhem from the back porch with his favourite Day of the Dead coffee cup in hand(thanks, Fletch). It’s amazing to see the transformation in all the inmates, and now Marco Polo, who at one time looked like he had been raised on a steady diet of lead-based paint chips and now, well, still looks that way, just considerably more active, bounding around like mom had sprinkled cocaine instead of sugar on his breakfast cereal. What a difference a second/minute/hour/day makes, and the horror of what was then fades into the beauty of what is now.
No matter what you’re facing, or for how long, it can all change in a microsecond, and even if it doesn’t, your perception of it can. Your vision can and will snap back into focus, sometimes it’s simply a matter of cleaning the dog spit off of your glasses.
Happy Charlie Bravo Day, and Chark Diem!
