Short Fuse, No Fuse

Sometimes, when I’m sitting up in the oak tree at the hour in which all the young families of suburbia take their walks- I see him. A family parade walks by- A mom, stroller in tow, a dad juggling a red radio flyer in one hand, the golden retriever in another, and up ahead, the five year old who wants to embark upon a solo adventure- and as soon as they round the corner the front door of his house slams and the porch railing rattles. He staggers angrily down the front walk, his lips muttering something beneath his scragilly graying beard. Chasing behind him, his mean old sidekick- the scroungy mutt.
And following this muttering episode, he hops into his truck, the brown dog beating him to the driver’s seat. Yet, as he swings open the car door, he knows best to move for his master. Door slams closed, dented truck putters away.

He returns ten minutes later; nothing in hand. He’s stopped his muttering, and he goes back inside. However, ol’ sidekick doesn’t seem to be quite as cooled off. Instead, he lies in the middle of the street, and even though they are cloudy, I can still see the mean in his eyes.

Five minutes and the man comes storming out down the walkway again- yelling audible obscenities at the dog. He doesn’t seem scared- rather, expecting. Yet- instead of slinking back into the house he walks back over toward the truck parked up against the front curb and waits for the guy to open the door. Again, into the drivers seat, he moves when necessary, and they drive off once again. And come back empty handed.

It seems what life is all about.