The Winter of Dad’s Discontent — Believer

Dismember or murder that part of me that would kill my creativity. What a horrible prompt. I’m far too soft hearted to even consider it. But yet.

My Dad was the sweetest man I knew, even tempered, always willing to offer help and encouragement. When I was young we had a houseful of cats that my mom had taken in. Dad was a dog-man, but bore it with his usual good nature and wound up with the nasty jobs of doctoring them and taking them to the vets with me as sidekick/helper.

One January our whole crew came down in varying degrees with something called rhino-traechitis, a feline upper respiratory disease with the added benefit of blisters in the mouth. Think sneezy, bleary eyed, breathing through your mouth kitty flu —-

With two carriers and every cat needing to go to the vet’s office for a shot and then be medicated at home three times a day, Dad and I were shuttling back and forth for two straight days. The first day was bitterly cold, the second colder yet, with just enough snow and sleet to make the road slick and the windshield iced. Nearly tapped out we tucked the last two cats into the carriers and headed out to the car. We could barely see as we drove along the deserted main street.

We were silent most of the way, cold, disgusted, and truly sorry for our suffering friends.” I hate winter,” Dad said. I grunted in reply. He had told me about trying to sleep in fox holes in France during WWII. The enemy shot at him, bombs fell around him, the noise was deafening, then everything would stop for a while and, numb from the cold, he would begin to doze. Suddenly the night sky would blaze up as planes screamed overhead and rained shrapnel down on him as he cringed in his muddy hole.

“I hate winter,” he repeated. “If it was a thing, I’d kick it till it begged for mercy.”

I chuckled. “Beat the stuffing’ out of it, huh?”

“Stomp on it until it’s eyes popped. Pour gasoline on it and set it on fire.”

“Slide bamboo shoots under its nails.” Me again.

We went on this way for the whole ride, each time adding on further punishment and gore.

So I’m thinking–maybe scissors. Sharp ones. You know, take those evil little thoughts that keep me from writing and claim I have no talent, no perseverance, no chance in hell of saying anything worthwhile, put them down on paper and slice those babies up.

Hehehe–everybody knows I have my dad’s disposition.