TThe mysterious package propped up against the front door is addressed to my wife. I put it inside and hand it to her. She stares at it for a long time, as if trying to see what’s inside the package.
“That could be your new hammock,” she finally said. “Happy birthday.”
“It’s not my birthday,” I say.
Last summer my old hammock broke and after much looking and measuring the replacement I ordered would not fit the stand. Of course this hammock fits perfectly.
“Better than yours,” says my wife.
“Let’s see,” I said, and climbed into the hammock. The front door opened and in walked my oldest son, who had just returned from vacation.
“Hello!” he called, and the moment he stepped into the garden, the hammock stand shot up and I did a somersault and fell to the ground.
“Ouch,” I said, rubbing my head.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“Your father was in an accident,” my wife said.
A week later, our middle dog is swinging gently in his new hammock, my wife is lying in a lawn chair, and I’m sitting in a deck chair that I’ve just spent an hour trying to remember how to fold into a chair shape, when the dog comes out, sneezes, and flips over.
“Oh, my grief,” said the wife, “she’s old.”
My oldest child and his girlfriend arrived. As they stepped into the yard, the folding chair I was sitting in suddenly collapsed. Everyone started laughing.
“He did this the last time I was here,” the oldest said.
“I didn’t do anything,” I said, lying on the grass surrounded by chair parts. “It’s a structural defect.”
I found two sturdy chairs for myself and my oldest son’s girlfriend, and rebuilt a broken deck chair for my oldest son.
“You’ll be safe if you don’t move,” I said. He sat down gently.
It was the warmest day so far this year and the assembled Brits spent around 20 minutes outside. I was soon alone in the garden, sitting in the afternoon sunshine while my dog slept under a hammock.
Eventually I retreated to the coolness of the kitchen where everyone was gathered.
“He can’t hear or see,” my wife said. “He’s always falling over and peeing everywhere.”
“Who are you talking about?” I said, raising my eyebrows defensively.
“It’s a dog,” said the eldest son.
“She’s leaving the gift shop, you know,” my wife says.
“Are you getting another dog?” asked the girlfriend of the oldest dog.
“Don’t think I haven’t been looking,” says the wife, “there’s nothing there.”
“Are you saying there are no dogs in this country?” asks the middle child.
“Look,” my wife says, and three devices instantly spin up to search dog adoption websites. From then on, the conversation follows a steady rhythm.
“Look at Stitch!” the middle child said, holding up his phone.
“Look at Kylie!” said the oldest child. “She’s a three-year-old Staffordshire Bull Terrier.”
“I don’t like the color,” my wife says.
The dog stumbled into the room and sneezed, causing his legs to pop out from under it like a toppled card table.
“Oh, how terrible,” said my wife.
“Look at Shelby,” I say, “the Chihuahua with the skin problem.”
“No,” my wife said. The dog decided to just sleep on the floor by the garden door.
“Look at Barnaby,” says the middle child. “He’s a lurcher the size of a pony.”
“Look Kevin,” the oldest said, spinning the laptop.
“XL bullying is no good,” my wife says.
“Kevin’s not a super bully,” his oldest son said. “He’s a sweet kid, but he has a sensitive side.”
“Look at Pickles,” the middle child says. “Look at Vinnie.”
“No, no,” says the wife, “You’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“Meanwhile,” I said, pointing to the floor, “this dog is still alive.” I looked in the direction my finger was pointing and thought, “Or maybe not.” The dog lay there completely motionless. I checked to see if it was breathing, but couldn’t see anything.
“Look at Geezer,” the middle child said. “Look at Squeak.”
I got up and casually walked over to where the dog was lying, carefully watching for any movement in its belly.
A cold shiver ran through my body as I approached. I poked the dog in the ribs. It twitched, looked up at me, smacked its tail on the floor, and yawned.
“I saw it,” my wife says.
“Just checking,” I said.
“Look at Lucky!” said the middle child.
