Arf arf yap yap arf yap yap arf arf yap yip
I hear the dogs barking when we step put of the car on our driveway. If our son has beat us home, he comes out, whereupon I usually ask him, "Did you take the trash cans back in/pick up the paper/get the mail?" to which I always know the answer is a whiny nasal, "No... I'll get it..." I walk in the house, and Ahfu is so excited to see us, he's whimpering, marching in place at the door, wagging his tail. Widget, who thinks every time someone is near the door, he's obligated to lose his mind, loses his mind. He yips, he yaps, whines, yaps from the head of the stairs because he's so small, he's terrified of going down stairs (to him, they are like cliffs). The nearer you get to him, the more he loses it, and starts to spin in circles, yapping like he's on fire and no one told him to stop, drop, and roll. He wants to be petted like Ahfu, but now has lost his tiny peanut brain, and so runs away, yapping furiously, spinning, bumping into objects, and trying to run at us to be petted ... all at the same time. Finally, I manage to grab him so he'll stop yapping. Then he shakes and shakes with excitement, making strange guinea pig like burbling noises of sheer frustration. My wife pets him, and then I put him on the floor, where he charges our legs for some reason, slamming into them with all of his pathetic 3 kg total weight. It's like being hit in the shin by two disgruntled sparrows.
That's when Artoo comes in. He's the alpha cat, and wants me to pet him. If I don't, he'll lose it, get mopey, and yowl. Trouble is, Ahfu and Widget don't want him getting a smidgen of attention, so if he's on the floor, they chase him like he's a rabid fox that wants a beatin'. So Artoo jumps on the backs of chairs, which is fine, because I can pet him at waist-hieght that way.
Then I look at the kitchen: it's a mess. The living room is also a mess. Something like a table or lamp or plant or stacks of papers or something has been knocked over since I cleaned it just this morning. Half the dog toys are out. Somehow, the dogs got ahold of some trash (usually wrappers or napkins) and that lies totally licked clean of any possible food molecules on the floor. My son forgot, again, that it's his job to clean up the dog toys and the trash. "Why should I clean it when they drag it out again anyway?" I dunno, why eat when you'll just be hungry again later? Life is so meaningless when you get down to it, isn't it, Mr. Nietzsche? And who ate two sleeves of Ritz crackers? No wait... "I don't know." I blame Satre for the missing crackers because he's French (if it's cookies, I blame that fat cookie-eating bastard Camous). Or Cosmo, who is turning out to be curious destructo-cat.
Then, if nothing weird happens (50/50), I'll take off my backpack, shoes, maybe go to the bathroom, and then get started on cleaning the kitchen. Then if there's no immediate pressing projects/repairs (50/50), I may go to my den to be on the computer, catch up on some laundry, or take a nap. It depends on when I get home. I get home from 3pm - 9pm, depending on work, so sometimes I just go right to bed, trying not to look at the mess in the kitchen. But on average, one of the first things I do is housework of some kind.
Do I like this? I am not sure. I think I'd hate it if every day was like this, but there's always something different greeting me. Maybe I have to e-mail myself a reminder to something, and I got straight to my den. Maybe I am hungry, and get a snack. Maybe I just don't want to face anyone because it's been a bad day and I don't want to suck anyone else into my depression spiral, so I go to my den. If it's a nice day, I try and catch up on yard work. Sometimes Christine is bummed out and I need to be there for her. If that's the case, we'll go right to bed, and watch TV until we fall asleep.
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