The Legend of PeeWee

It's late for me, and relatively dark in the front room with just the TV for light.

My father is sitting in the recliner next to me. He says, "Do you know what this is about?" He looks pained--exasperated even.

"Dad, I don't know what to do with the dog. If I did, I would tell you," I answer as I'm standing up.

"No, why is your mom so pissed at me?"

"I don't think I should get in the middle."

"Why?" There's a pleading in his voice that I cannot deny.

"She doesn't want PeeWee out in the den by herself all night long, but she also doesn't want her in bed. She wants you to figure out what to do with her." The last time PeeWee was in my parent's bed, she peed on the pillow, like the disoriented elderly dog she is. So, Mom made a credence. No more PeeWee on the bed.

Last night, maybe even roughly twenty-four hours ago, I could hear my mother screaming at my father, about how he should take care of his dog. I hadn't heard them fight like that in months.

(In the original draft of this entry, I refer to PeeWee as being "crazy," and then I realized how hypocritical I was being.)