Day Two...

On day two I get started on the entranceway, ripping up the diarrhea colored school tiles and getting ready to paint the concrete floor. We’ve done so much with this old house, but it seems like there’s still so much left to do.

Oh, well, I snag a beer from the fridge and get cracking, chipping away at the tiles and breathing the sweet, tangy taste of asbestos.

The dogs are confused. There’s loud music, no kid, no wife. Just sweat, beer and some manly grunting that may or may not sound like a little old lady crying.

I’m hauling things out of the sunroom to the carport, and I can just feel the testosterone in air. This place is like a frat house. A frat house with singing toys and a high chair and aww…he left his little shoes. They’re so cute in my hands. I miss his little feet, the little chubby rolls on his arms and legs.
I hear a voice in my head, it's yelling. "Snap out of it you pansy!"

Okay, okay, I’ve got my shop vac out. I stare at it, overturned on the floor. My son would be so jealous, he has a thing for vacuum cleaners, the kid is obsessed. Another pang of guilt ripples through my stomach, or that could be the tacos. Either way, I miss that kid.

I miss him holding the water bottle in my mouth while I lay down on the kitchen floor. (long story, but sure gets a kick out of enhanced interrogation).

I miss those little morning chats with himself when he wakes up in the morning.

I miss…you know what, I’m not doing this. "Man up dammit!"

Smacking myself silly, i pull myself together. 

Back to work…

Bad Dog

Over the weekend Anne and I traveled to the nation’s capital to meet up with family.  We decided to head up Saturday morning and come back that evening, which from Lynchburg, Va. makes for a pretty long day.

Our biggest dilemma was our puppy Mason.  We had just purchased a new couch and we weren’t about to leave him at the house unattended.  We dropped him off that morning with a friend who had agreed to watch him, which is no small undertaking.  It didn’t take long for things to go downhill. 

Just as we parked and were heading onto the metro to take to the National Mall we received a frantic phone call.  Mason had escaped and was galloping through the neighborhood heading for the main road.  There was a search in progress, as a growing party of concerned neighbors was combing the yards and streets.  Feeling helpless, we discussed heading back before realizing that it wouldn't do much good.

The next call eased our worries somewhat; Mason was lying in the street but not letting anyone near him.  As we are sitting in a crowded subway car, Anne starts to whistle into the phone.  And then, in her sweet Mom voice:

Come here Mason, Mason!  Come here boy! Come on Masey....come here!

At this point people were starting to stare as my wife tried to coax our dog into a house that’s four hours away via speakerphone.  I slid down in my seat and stared out of the window, distancing myself from this crazy woman sitting beside me.

Our third phone call brought better news, Mason had been captured, but the damage was done.  Our sitter, who has two young children and a dog of her own, informed us that she would never again watch our little monster. 

He would spend the rest of the day on a leash inside of the house. Our friend (hopefully still) had spent two hours looking for him while she was suposed to be at a birthday party.  Mason, the dog that only a parent could love, had just lost his first sitter.  We can only hope that our child will fare better.