Our Pet Children
Most women find it attractive when a man has a pet that he loves, such as I am with my dog Jett. It makes them think the male would be a suitable father. But, this isn't so. Just because I'm good with my dog doesn't necessarily mean I am good with children. If I had that outlook on it, I'd have my children sleep on the floor next to my bed everyday.
"Dad, I had a nightmare," he would say.
"That's okay," I'd reply, "just try not to get fleas on me tonight."
Every morning, I would strap a chain around my son's neck and have him run around the lawn. Then, I would tie him to a tree and go to work. I would kiss him on the forehead, rub his hair, and leave him with nothing but a bowl of water and tape worms.
When I'd come back home, he would be so excited to see me. I would take him inside for a nice family meal. My wife and I would sit across from each other, eating Italian food; our son, on all fours, gnawing on hard, spherical food. When we finished eating, we'd watch some TV. My arm around the Ms., and my feet using my son as a foot-rest. Then, it'd be off to bed.
I'd read him his favorite story. "Clifford the Big, Red Dog" of course. I'd tuck him in, but, like any other child, he wouldn't want to go to sleep.
"But, I'm not sleepy!" he'd cry.
"Okay, okay... I'll let you stay up just a little bit longer," I'd tell him, "but don't tell your mother, okay? She'd kill me if she knew."
And, thus, my son, my pride and joy, would get a chain wrapped around his neck again, and we'd go running down the street in front of our house.
We'd go back in and he'd go to sleep. I'd go to my room where my loving wife would be waiting for me.
"He's a good boy, isn't he?" She'd say.
"Yes. He is," I'd say. I would then go on to add, "Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy? He is! Oh, yes he is!"
"Dad, I had a nightmare," he would say.
"That's okay," I'd reply, "just try not to get fleas on me tonight."
Every morning, I would strap a chain around my son's neck and have him run around the lawn. Then, I would tie him to a tree and go to work. I would kiss him on the forehead, rub his hair, and leave him with nothing but a bowl of water and tape worms.
When I'd come back home, he would be so excited to see me. I would take him inside for a nice family meal. My wife and I would sit across from each other, eating Italian food; our son, on all fours, gnawing on hard, spherical food. When we finished eating, we'd watch some TV. My arm around the Ms., and my feet using my son as a foot-rest. Then, it'd be off to bed.
I'd read him his favorite story. "Clifford the Big, Red Dog" of course. I'd tuck him in, but, like any other child, he wouldn't want to go to sleep.
"But, I'm not sleepy!" he'd cry.
"Okay, okay... I'll let you stay up just a little bit longer," I'd tell him, "but don't tell your mother, okay? She'd kill me if she knew."
And, thus, my son, my pride and joy, would get a chain wrapped around his neck again, and we'd go running down the street in front of our house.
We'd go back in and he'd go to sleep. I'd go to my room where my loving wife would be waiting for me.
"He's a good boy, isn't he?" She'd say.
"Yes. He is," I'd say. I would then go on to add, "Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy? He is! Oh, yes he is!"