Tell me I’m bad. I’ll tell you I’m still me.
So he got ahead of himself this morning. He growled and then snapped at me. I did what most men my age would do. I belted him right across the face with all my might. Hell of a punch. Lifted him right off his feet.
My wife agreed that it was the right medicine.
You know? He needed it. He’s been better since. Kind of a thank you daddy moment. Now I await your abuse…
Love me, love me not.
This is writerly hyperbole, right? I’ll grant that growling and snapping can’t be tolerated. But I can’t figure out how this meshes with your several years of obviously sincere animal-loving posts. Hell, I’ve never cold-cocked a dog and I’m pretty much a complete asshole.
Watching my dad interact with Max has been instructive. Dad’s patience with the jumping and pawing and general shenanigans, during the first half-hour or so while Max adjusts to having a new person around, is endless. Over time, it actually pays off.
Writerly hyperbole? Of course. At this stage of my life I couldn’t punch my way out of a paper bag.