If I Had a Hammer

SAM_0373            Daisy arrived over the weekend, mysteriously shrouded in the cloak of night, her rounded form perched on a trailer that was attached to a rig. I missed her homecoming and that makes me sad. However, my patient, noble, faithful (he reads this and I have GOT to get out of the crapper) – did I say devastatingly handsome – understanding, brilliant, etc. ad nauseam spousal unit remained home to intercept her. I owe him. He’s gonna wish that “til death do us part” had a codicil. Perhaps “til she buys a 1959 camper do us part,” or “til she loses her freaking mind and I can commit her do us part.”

It was nearly midnight by the time the shippers had unloaded and carefully placed her in an obscure location that wouldn’t bring attention to the overlords of our city within a city. We aren’t breaking the rules – yet – but we are bending them. The shippers left, continuing their journey to Atlanta, and spousal unit stumbled into bed.

It was by morning’s light he awakened to see the trench warfare in our yard. Our recently aerated and seeded by professionals yard. Hipsters were repelling from the sides of the grooves left by the shipper’s rig. We wonder if their Atlanta delivery was a hundred ton meteorite. With some fake snow and the reflective glare of Bob Costa’s teeth, we could host an Olympic luge competition.

He sent me a photo of Daisy. She looked forlorn. Dismal. Like a puppy in a shelter, fur matted, hope gone. Guilt overwhelmed me. What had I done? I was a Big, Fluffy Dog Rescue reject, failing the interview for two grown Great Pyrenees because I had loved my golden retriever so much. “If you love goldens so much, then you don’t need Pyrs,” the interviewer had said. Apparently Pyrenees are too smart, too independent, too high maintenance for folks like me. So, I got another golden. A big, goofy, smelly, loyal, not-too-bright golden who eats moles and blankets to pass the time. But, this? Daisy? Was she a Great Pyrenees who was going to be Just Too Much?

When I returned home, spousal unit greeted me by dangling keys on a heart keychain in front of my face. “I didn’t want to go in until you could go with me.” I wondered if it were love, loyalty, or fear of the unknown that compelled his actions. There could be critters in that there camper.

We entered. She didn’t stink. We expected stink. Boy child was with us, home for Thanksgiving break. He climbed aboard as well. The golden retriever whined at the door. We flashed our cell phone lights around the interior. Not too bad. Oh. Look. There’s the original flooring. Now THAT is cool. A little water damage, but that’s old. Hmmm…did the closet used to be a head? My arse wouldn’t fit in there, but people WERE smaller in the 50s. Check out how that table works. Is that a cigarette lighter? Oh, this is cool. SO freaking cool.

The next morning, we were ripping out the ceiling so we could get to the dent on the roof, caused by a tree branch and gravity. Father and son worked like the team they have always been, barely needing to speak as one pounded from the outside and one braced from the inside. As they worked to get the metal back to its original form, it was as if Daisy were cracking her neck. A pop here, a crack there and she would be able to stand a little more erectly. I noticed that I was standing a little straighter as well.

I may not make a good home for a bonded pair of Great Pyrenees, but I believe spousal unit and I will have done o.k. by golden retrievers, cats, two kids and a camper named Daisy.


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