A Fresh Pot Of Rage Has Been Set Upon The Stove

This new pot of rage has been simmering overnight. It's not boiling yet. Perhaps it's more suited for a slow-cooker. A crockpot rage, if you will.

Wednesday evening, Farmer H flung open the kitchen door. I hate it when he does that. It's startling. With all the snow and cold, my little Jack is not lying in the hole he dug that is under SilverRedO under the carport. So I don't hear him bark as he trots out of the hole to serenade Farmer H down the driveway. Farmer H knows I haven't gone to town in the snow, so he doesn't even try his key in the doorknob. He knows the door is unlocked.

This fresh rage is not about being startled out of my skin by a barging Farmer H. He stepped in after swinging the door wide open. Stomped around on the inside doormat. Then pulled the door closed, raking in maximum arctic cold. I was shivering, even with my under-table electric heater. But that's not the main ingredient of my fresh pot of rage, either.

Farmer H clumped across the kitchen floor, boot soles squeaking, tracking clumps of snow. Dirty gray snow, as if he'd been stomping a snowdrift beside the road gathering car exhaust.

"Hey! You're leaving dirty snow. I hope I don't slip and fall in your puddles."

"I've gotta go to the bathroom."

Of course he must announce all bodily functions. Except the gaseous emissions, which are definitely not silent, but considerably deadly, which he saves until he comes to the kitchen.

"Great. Now you're tracking it on the carpet, too."

No answer. He came back through the house, headed for his recliner.

"So you're just gonna leave it there?"

"I don't know what you expect me to do, HM! I wiped my feet on the rug. TWICE!"

"That doesn't mean you got out all the snow. It's all over the floor."

Farmer H started back to kitchen. No doubt with the intent of proving my lyin' eyes wrong.

"Hear that? Your boots are still melting snow and getting it on the floor."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What am I supposed to do? Let it melt, and maybe slip on it? Or clean up YOUR mess?"

"Fine! I'll get a paper towel!"

Which he did. One. A single select-a-size. And dabbed at the biggest puddle, closest to me. Not getting all of it, leaving a gray streak like a rivulet from a polluted glacier. Which I cleaned up later, before walking over it to lock the kitchen door for the night.