Native Sons - Part II

I awoke this morning to the sound of scurrying puppy paws and thundering feet coming down the staircase. It’s my stepfather. What’s he doing up this early? He NEVER gets up until after 9 a.m. and it’s not even 8 yet. THUD, THUD, THUD…FRONT DOOR SQUEEKING OPEN…SLAM!…FRONT DOOR OPENING AGAIN…SLAM!…THUD, THUD, THUD. Now mind you, the front door is, oh, 2 feet from the head of my bed. The only thing separating me from it is a thin wall.

More commotion out in the kitchen. The smallest dog, Chrissy, grabs her chew toy and it starts to squeek. “CHRISSY!!!” he blurts out in a “whisper” so as not to "wake me up”.

Too late there, bucko.

Tired of this scenario, and not sleeping anymore anyway, I get up and go out into the living room to see what is going on. I find the downstairs vacant. Where the hell is he? I look out into the backyard. Nope. He must be out in the garage, I think.

Starting my morning ritual, I go over to the coffee pot to make the morning coffee. The coffee’s already been made. Hmm… On my way into the living room, I notice that the paper has already been brought in. Double Hmm…Must have been what all the door slamming was all about.

I continue down my checklist…

I straighten the duvet on the couch, fluff the pillows, pick the dog toys up off the floor, open the blinds, straighten the coffee table, uncover the bird and give the dogs some much needed attention. I notice that the “clean” light is on for the dishwasher. I empty it out and continue on my journey.

As I’m bending over the couch, lint brush in hand, cleaning the cat fur off, I hear thundering footsteps and jangling keys coming down the stairs. It’s my stepfather, dressed in his “Native Sons of the Golden West” sweatshirt and matching baseball cap. “Oh Dear God”, I think. He is carrying a clipboard in one hand and a travelers’ mug filled with coffee in the other. He tries to step over the dog gate at the foot of the stairs…clumsily. Well, his hands are full! He can’t possibly move the gate now could he?

He is going to fall down and crack his head open and I’m going to have to drive him to the hospital.

Entering the room, he looks at me, says “Neener, neener, neener!” then promptly turns and disappears. He doesn’t really go anywhere, he just wants me to come chasing after him, of course.

I don’t.

I sit there on the couch and await his triumphant return.

And wait…

And wait…

And wait…

Now, he’s only moved about 2 feet away, BUT HE’S BEHIND A WALL, SO YOU CAN’T SEE HIM!!!

Is this guy in kindergarten or something?

He finally returns to the living room and I ask him what the “Neener, Neener” was all about. He looks at me triumphantly and says, “I did all the stuff YOU normally do in the morning!”.

You bet you did! You big boy you!

You made a pot of coffee, which you already drank half of, and brought in the newspaper. Here big boy, let me give you a gold star to put on your homework. I ask him why he’s wearing all the “Native Sons” memorabilia. He says proudly, “It’s spring cleaning day down at the hall. Do you wanna come?”

No thanks dude, I just finished cleaning your house.

I spend the entire time that he’s gone mowing and edging the front lawn, sweeping up the grass and hosing down the driveway and sidewalk.

Just as I’m finishing, his car comes rolling up the street. He stops at the beginning of the driveway, idling. I move the lawnmower, garbage can, broom and hose out of his way. He parks his car and gets out to inspect my handiwork.

The reward for my efforts? He looks at me and says, “Hey, you wanna go and get a root beer float?”.