I think my oldest son is trying to kill me.
It's 10:30 in the morning and I just woke up. I never sleep this late. It's because I am exhausted. He's trying to get me through sleep deprivation.
Background: I was a great father.
Oh. Well. Maybe I backed up too far. Steven is in the midst of a divorce. Since the Mystery Woman and I are supposed to be in Minneapolis for the summer, I invited him to stay in our Austin condo until he figures out where he wants to live.
It's a nice, but small condo. My office clutters the second bedroom. The Mystery Woman makes her mess in the loft. Works nice.
But when we discovered I needed hernia surgery, I wanted the Austin surgeons to do the cutting, figuring I might get a volume discount since this was my third surgery this year.
Long story explaining why I am sleeping on my own couch. Groin pain too tuff for stairs. Anyhow, I like sleeping on the couch. It's a guy thing. No sheets.
Only problem is, the couch is 15 feet from the front door. By definition, me, too.
So Steven comes dragging around midnight with a vigorous greeting from his dog, Poochie. That's OK. I manage to take two more pain pills and return to la-la land.
Here's where it gets diabolical. Around 2 a.m., it's a scene right out of Norman Rockwell: boy, dog, cigar, laptop and moonlight on the patio. But the damn dog starts scratching on the patio glass (also about 12 feet from my head). She has seen me through the glass door, thinks she remembers me, and wants to get reacquainted.
For fifteen minutes, scratch. SCRATCH.
Finally, I managed to contort my body into a standing position, hobble to the door and let her in.
Did you hear your dog scratching?
Yes, but I thought if I ignored her, she would quit.
Easy for you to say.
If I am found laying in the gutter with my belly to the sun, you know who did it. On the other hand, if he is found in the same gutter, it means I found where I put the Red Ryder.