In fact, The Pony will die numerous times, on assorted hills, like a mediocre actor rehearsing his craft, never quite achieving his original goal.
The Pony will latch onto an issue like a terrier on a rat (I'm giving the pit bulls a day off). He will shake that issue vigorously, going back and forth to show he means business, and that he will not relinquish control. I am not so much the rat as the big mellow dog lounging nearby, a St. Bernard, perhaps, waiting until the end to step in and take that now-limp rat away from the exhausted terrier.
I was washing dishes last week when The Pony wandered in to grab a small bag of chips off the table.
"Pony. Before you leave, hand me a new box of Puffs. There's one on the chair there. Under the pair of gloves I brought in from T-Hoe."
The Pony went to the 3-pack of Puffs on the table. Only two were left, in that clingy film that holds them together, since I'd already had The Pony bring a box downstairs the previous week. Not that he'd even thought of putting that 3-pack in the hall closet when he carried it in from his shopping trip. Or looked for a single box left from the previous 3-pack.
"Um. There's a box on the chair."
"I'm just getting this one out. The plastic has to come off some time."
"There's no need to do that, when you can reach your hand down on the chair, and set THAT box over here on the counter where I can get it. You don't have to deal with the plastic on that pack now. It can go in the closet."
"It's already been opened. It's right here."
"Look. Look on that chair. Do you see it? Am I wrong? Is it something else, not a box of Puffs?"
"Huh. It's a box of Puffs. JUST LIKE THIS ONE I WAS GETTING OUT. See? Same color and design."
The Pony set the chair box on top of the remaining 2-pack. It was identical to the top box.
"Just hand it too me. I don't know what was so hard about that. It was already loose. All you had to do was pick it up and turn and stretch out your arm to me."
"Meh. Same difference."
My kitchen is just a little waitin' place and they're all difficult Hillmomba hicks...
4 comments:
Oooh. After that encounter, you might need to give The Pony a refund on his rent this month. That was correcting and helpful, in one smooth move.
My Saint Bernard was afraid of mice. She was presented with one from the cat and if dogs could scream, she would have as she stumbled over her own feet in an effort to flee. I know, not your point, just a side line observation. Sounds like the Pony might be getting on your last nerve. My youngest did that when she moved back home for the last time. Having a shoe fetish, she would leave her shoes in the foyer upon entering, pair after pair after pair. I simply asked her to put her shoes away and she responded with, "Whatever, Mom, I will get them later." I told her that if she left them, I would pick them up and suggested she might not be happy. Another "whatever" and she went out to he driveway to chat with a car full of her friends. I picked them up. I threw them out the front door into a couple of feet of snow. I was right, she was not happy.
Young'uns do seem to take some joy in makin' life difficult for themselves. Or is it just that he is 'adult age for cripes sake' and doesn't have to do exactly as he's told, like a child.
Sioux,
Heh, heh! REFUND??? I might have to put some caution tape around the big triangle tub. I think it's due for repairs...
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Kathy,
I bet that was satisfying, flinging those shoes into the snow! It will be good to reminisce about, when you're sitting in your rocker with a shawl tucked around your legs, knitting a wiener dog cozy.
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River,
He's just too much like Farmer H! Always with an "explanation" for his wrongness! What he could have done in one second took five minutes. I don't have unlimited time left, you know!
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