Reading to the Dog

The "whatevers" were getting to me. I was seeing the child who adored me slowly turn into a teenager. I couldn't stop the process, but how could I keep my sanity? I began wearing my i-pod everywhere, retreating to the back-yard porch swing to read to the dog when my son came home from school, and then slowly shrugging my shoulders when he asked me what time dinner would be ready.

Some days he'd bounce on the old trampoline a few times before heading in the house to find his cellphone or blast Metallica, but most days he looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. Who reads to a dog?

Our mutual silence bought us some time and quiet, but he was becoming a complete stranger. As his grades started slipping, I committed myself to saving him from the piles of filth that had grown in his room, piles that were multiplying daily. I firmly believe that left to their own devices, teenage boys will disappear into mountains of dirty clothes connected to an outlet by one long electric cord. The cord feeds a hidden X-Box, PS2, or Wii, and sometimes a plate of half-eaten Oreos emerges from the mess.

Eyes stare out from the pile, daring me to throw the entire mound into the washing machine, clothes, boy, and hand-held electronic device whirling until clean. As I approached the quivering pile, it groaned, belched, and let out a moan that sounded as if my mere presence had deeply disturbed its solitude. I think I need a rake.
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