I told my ninety-two year old father that he should feed his dog in the front room, because the dog’s bowl was full of ants. They go after Louie’s lamb and rice pellets. Dad responded by spreading pellets in piles all over the brick patio.
Now there’s piles of pellets on the kitchen floor, pellets on the patio, and pellets tracked in on my bedroom floor. I wanted to put my father in a rear naked choke hold and make him swallow a bottle of his Miralax. I ended up yelling at him instead (God damn it, Dad!), and, later, when he went back to take his nap, I smacked the door between our rooms with a fly swatter every once in a while, yelling “missed that stinkbug again.”
This semi-caretaker shit is getting serious. I don’t like to get serious.