The other day, I unexpectedly had to go to a three-hour meeting at the end of my workday to listen to our labor negotiator outline what he planned to tell the unions at the opening of contract talks the next day.
I staggered home knowing that the next day I would have to go to another meeting to listen to him actually tell those things to the unions. My mind was on the two things in this world that truly bring me comfort - my Shar-pei, Bingo, and my La-Z-Boy recliner.
A bit of great-to-see-you tail wagging, jumping, slobbering and general adulation from Bingo and then a nice nap in the La-Z-Boy were just what I needed.
As I drove onto my street, I noticed a black Shar-pei trotting down the sidewalk. Uh-oh, I thought. The other Shar-pei on the street was loose. I wondered if she was heading to our place to harass Bingo.
I opened my car door and, sure enough, the dog was coming up the driveway. As I braced for a possible fury of teeth and claws, the animal jumped on me and started licking my face. This was no she! It was Bingo!
"Bingo!" I stammered, "how did you get out of the yard?"
He bolted back down the street at about 90 miles per hour. I move at about 90 miles per lifetime and had no chance to catch him. I went into the house in a panic looking for help. Bingo's disposition has been nasty lately. I was afraid that if he got a reputation as a vicious dog loose on the street, the boys with the nets would be paying us a visit.
In the house, I found my offspring watching TV. "How did the dog get out?" I demanded.
"Not guilty," they both pleaded.
"Right," I said. "He must have just jumped up and opened the latch on the gate himself."
They chased him down and dragged him home. I gave him a scolding and headed back into the house to hit the recliner.
I couldn't believe my eyes. The hassock on the La-Z-Boy was up, twisted badly out of shape and wouldn't go down. The back was frozen and wouldn't recline. The chair listed to the right and tilted forward.
I shot the offspring evil glances. Again, innocent pleas.
"Right," I said. "The chair got tired of being a chair and twisted itself into a plush wreck."
By now I was pretty frosted. I had warned them time and again not to let Bingo out of the yard. "All it takes is a little attention," I said. "He never gets out on me."
And I had mentioned often that I wasn't thrilled about how roughly they treated my chair in their rush to jump into it the minute I got up.
BUT I couldn't even take comfort in my self-righteous indignation for long.
Yesterday, Bingo got out on me. The spring on the gate has lost its spring and a gust of wind held it open for just a second as I closed it behind me. Bingo saw his chance to teach me humility and was out like a shot.
And I had to admit I had been looking for an excuse to get a new chair since reading Burl Burlingame's article on the latest in recliners in the Star-Bulletin a few weeks ago.
So my weekend is set out for me: a quick trip to the hardware store for a new gate spring and then a long rest in my new turbo-lounger to reflect on how delicious comfort can be.
Unless the dog and the offspring have other plans.
