It’s funny how our memories work. I can hear a certain phrase and start singing
(usually in my head, sometimes out loud) related song lyrics. I can throw down all sorts of Baptist Hymns
from even the most mundane phrase in a sermon.
Often, I will have quick, sudden memories come flooding back when the
most random and un-related things happen.
Today,
I was opening the door of my temporary office, which is the size of the back
pocket of a hipster’s skinny jeans and was accosted by a stench. Apparently, when I left work on Tuesday
afternoon, it was before the young man who empties the trash came by to empty
mine. In my haste to flee the confines
of the federal government for the frolicking fun of my birthday extravaganza, I
failed to remember to place the waste receptacle in the hallway, inadvertently
leaving behind something in it that, after returning 36 hours later, smelled
like a dead animal who had passed away after eating really old manicotti.
In the tight confines of this
cubicle-with-a-door, the stench was concentrated, y’all. I promise you, when the smell hit me in the
face, I immediately assumed a defensive posture, not unlike that illegal one
The Karate Kid did at the end of the movie.
It was a fitting response, considering I had two months of karate
training during fifth grade in Oklahoma before my instructor left town for
reasons other than my astonishing lack of talent or skill. Trust me, I can hit and/or kick you, but only
if you stand directly in front of me and walk into my fist and/or foot,
repeatedly until you injure yourself or get really tired and/or disinterested,
like me. Unsurprisingly, this reminded
me of my father; the stench, not the martial arts.
When that particular synaptic
misfire landed on The Dad, I suddenly remembered a conversation we had recently
where he told a story that he surely could not have believed, but seemed to
with his whole heart, y’all. He truly
thought he had taught his bulldog Rufus to tiptoe.
Anyone who knows The Dad knows he
can be aggressive and loud. He was a
frightening man when we were growing up.
His Boston Terrier, Lulu, is a sweet little dog; I practically stole her
form him when he lived with me in Palo Alto.
She is an awesome pooch and I have only heard her bark one time. Ever.
The Dad said he trained her not to bark.
I’m unsure of the methods and I think it’s best if we don’t ever find
out. Do I think he hit her? No, I don’t.
Do I think he yelled at her until she complied? Oh, yes, I do. The Dad was a proponent of the ‘Volume is a
Virtue’ ideal used mostly by barking heads who consider themselves pundits,
these days. It’s the main reason I am so
loud. It’s in my DNA, people.
We were discussing Rufus and how
big and clumsy he is at the age of two, weighing about 100 pounds. Think of a Volkswagen Beetle, but with fur. He told me that when Rufus moves across the
kitchen floor headed toward The Dad in the quixotic hope that he might get some
table scraps, his toenails clickety-clack.
The Dad, not the most patient of individuals, told me that he had been
trying to train Rufus to be quieter on his sojourns. By train, The Dad meant yelling at Rufus to
be quiet. I laughingly asked if his
method had worked and he swore that it had.
Throughout the conversation he kept
asking me if I could hear him because he couldn’t hear me. I assured him it was probably because his
phone is a relic, y’all. Seriously, it
is a flip phone. I think he got it for free
with a fill up at the gas station. I repeatedly
told him to turn up volume, but I sang it like that M.A.R.R.S. song, Pump up the Volume, which was as helpful
as you’d think.
I asked him if he was wearing his
hearing aids. He said, “Do what?” I repeated the question. He said, “I can’t understand you, JD.” I then yelled, “Hearing Aid!” He replied, “My battry’s dead in my hearing
aid, but I don’t need it.” I said, “Yes.
You.
Do.” He replied, “What?” At this point I sighed the sigh of the
overburdened and simply waited for him to pick up the conversational baton in
this relay race of a phone call.
His next words were very
excited. He said, “Here comes Rufus,
JD! He’s tiptoeing! I’ll put the phone down by the floor, so you
can hear that there’s no sound!” I heard
a shuffling sound as he bent toward the floor and then heard, very clearly, doggy
toenail on tile. Rufus was
clickety-clacking as loudly as you’d expect from a dog so meaty and clumsy.
He picked up the phone and said,
“Ain’t that somethin’? I taught ol’
Rufus how to tiptoe!” I could hear his
smile all the way from Ohio. I yelled,
“Yes, sir! That’s somethin’ all
right.” I didn’t know what else to do except
go along with it. I just hope he doesn’t
try to go on America’s Got Talent with
his new ‘skill’. My sainted brother
doesn’t need the headache of posting bail money if/when The Dad gets “some lip”
from Simon Cowell. Check your local
listings, just in case.
