A couple of years ago, I told the story of the time I accidentally bit Pa (the story can be found here). As you might remember, I was absolutely horrified at what happened that day--it was Pa, the boss, the head honcho, the top dog, the guy who “gets” me and I bit him! And as horrified as I was, I can only image that you, my loyal readers, were equally if not more horrified and disappointed in the misdeeds of yours truly. I’m just not that kind of dog anymore (as you know, I was quite the juvenile delinquent when I was a pup).
Well, I hate to report it, but it happened again.
I know, I know! How could this happen, you ask? How could I possibly make the mistake of biting Pa a second time? Well, as before, I blame him.
It was Sunday morning and I decided to help Pa make the bed and by that I mean I got in his way and prevented him from making the bed. How? After he pulled the sheet up on one side of the bed, I took a running leap and threw myself down onto the middle of the mattress. Assuming the “dead weight” position (going limp while lying on my side), I turned my head and smiled up toward Pa. He tried to act angry. He tried to make it look like he didn’t find my shenanigans 100% adorable. But he was unable to fully suppress the laugh that started emanating from his throat as soon as I collapsed on the mattress. So, Pa did the only thing he could think of: he decided to rough me up.
Now, I’m not sure if I ever mentioned this before, but my family has always said that I don’t know how to play like a normal dog. I don’t play with my toys, I kill them. I don’t retrieve a thrown ball, I just look up at you as if asking “why did you throw it if you wanted it back so bad?” I also don’t roughhouse like other dogs nor play a game that my family refers to as snarly face (a game in which I'm expected to playfully show my teeth and gently nip at hands which sounds so completely wrong, but apparently is not as violent as one might think).
So, long story short, I don't normally roughhouse, but Pa was so annoying and so insistent that day (rolling me over, giving me a gentle shoves, and pulling the blankets over my head), that eventually I cracked. Without even thinking, I turned my head sideways and grabbed hold of Pa’s shirtsleeve.
Suddenly, time stopped. I had Pa’s shirtsleeve in my mouth. Did he notice? Did he realize that I bit him again? Granted, the first time, all those years ago, I actually caught flesh and this time I only caught his sleeve, but a bite’s a bite, right? I quickly spit the fabric out and sheepishly looked up at Pa, my ears back in shame.
“What did you do?” he asked, but not in an upset or angry sort of way. He looked like he did before when he was trying to scold me for jumping on the bed—he was barely able to suppress his laughter. Despite the fact that I didn't appear to be destined for a hollerin’ at, I must admit that I was a little shook up from the entire experience. There would be no more roughhousing from me.
So there you have it. As you can see, Pa was fully to blame. He caused me to bite him and nothing is going to change my story.
No comments:
Post a Comment