Today we received a small package containing a DVD, a note, and 39 cents. The return address was interesting: the rotten kid. The other address was almost that bad—something about the old folks. But the note inside explained the 39 cents—for Harley’s pencil habit. That blamed dog ate our carpenter’s pencil when it fell off the saw table. The pencil didn’t even get a chance to bounce!
We sat down and watched the DVD. Youngest son has now jumped out of an airplane into the wild blue yonder—and very quickly back down to old mother earth. It must have been a remarkable experience because he is still talking about it and finding ways to compare ‘normal’ life to what can be lived. If someone threw me out of a plane from any height—and I lived to tell about it—I would probably be pretty excited too.
The package we received was light weight and pretty funny. Then we went to Wally World and bought a very heavy package for Dad’s birthday. It’s noisy too, so he will be able to hear what he is getting for his 82nd birthday. Mom’s little package will not make much noise, but she won’t care. It is neat that their birthdays are within a day of each other and easy to remember. They get a year older right about Thanksgiving every year. Getting older still beats the alternative, and I suppose having birthdays is one habit we can keep.
Harley has a noisy habit—barking. Once in a while I look to see if he has actually discovered something worth the effort, but usually it is a stray cat, a squirrel, a motorcycle, or a sound from across the lake. The dogs on the other side of the lake have a Morse code all of their own. Two barks and a yip call for two woos and a woof from our back yard. If we ever break their code, we may discover a news source better than Fox ever hoped to be.
Other than making a little noise or shedding on everything with which he comes in contact, Harley’s only other bad habit is trying to be a lap dog. I honestly don’t know anyone with the right size lap for a Harley dog. And since carpenter’s pencils have lead in them, I guess we will just have to work on satisfying Harley’s main habit—chewing boots. If we can find one of those huge bones to let him drag around the back yard, maybe it will keep him off the tractor. If he ever learns to drive that thing, we are going to be in trouble! The insurance premiums for teenagers are terrible! And he is only four!