My Leige

A few weeks ago I went to visit my Dad and as I was pulling in to the driveway he was walking out to the mailbox. I stopped the car and we stared at each other for a few moments. I lowered my window.

Hi

Hiya

What’s on your head?

It’s called a hat.

Yeah but where’d you get it?

The French Foreign Legion.

It looks good.

Thanks.

I followed him back to the house or rather to the gate at the side of it, rigged up with slats of wood and chairs balanced on tables. Ficus vines, 3 feet high, grew along the top, so that you could barely push it open and squeeze through anyway.

“What’s with the obstacle co—“

“Don’t let the dogs out, don’t let the dogs out. “

As soon as he yells this, two dogs come bounding out of nowhere and hurl themselves up against the fence. I have to kick them in the head and growl while shimmying myself sideways through a 4 inch gap. Dad is right behind me.

“Grab their paws, grab their paws.”

I have no idea what he is talking about. All I can think is how weird it is that entering the house has turned in to a stressful operation like running from an enemy or robbing a bank.

“Grab their front paws, then they can’t jump.”

“Can’t you just tell them not to ju-, ohhhh.” One of them knocks me in the side like a 250-pound linebacker hitting a dummy sled.

Dad has grabbed the paws of the other and is walking him across the yard.

“Fucksake,” I scream. The dog keeps licking my hands when I grab for his paws, which would be fine except that he has the thick, jelly slobber of a distressed and crazed animal. Once I grab the paws I have to fully knee him square in the chest with each step. I can tell he thinks this is great fun: my Dad and I square-dancing with him and his brother through the garden.

“Why don’t you get them some collars, take them on walks?”

"Ehn." My Dad says this like he has considered it and ruled it out because it MAKES TOO MUCH SENSE. He grabs a stick off the table we sit on and holds them at bay like an African witch doctor.

“Jesus. I feel like I need a drink."

“Yeah. They’re sweet though.”

“They are not fucking sweet Dad. I have never in my life said what I’m about to say but I think you need to shoot both of them in the head.”

“Naww.”

“Seriously.”

I am sweating now, still breathing heavy. I realize my bottle of cool refreshing water is back in the car. I am ready to leave.

“You really need to get them some collars.”

My dad, still holding the stick out, stares at them, “You said that already”.

“I’m probably going to say it again.”

I can’t help laughing. We sit on the table in the middle of the yard like we’re on a raft out in the middle of the ocean. We sit this way, quietly, for about five minutes. At this moment, there is nothing we can't talk about.