While the Editor-in-Chief is not looking, I have decided to post my final entry into the Defying Moments contest.  It may be a day late and a dollar short, but so am I.  Let me preface the following by pointing out that, like everything else I write, it is not fiction. I write “creative nonfiction,” which is an emerging genre somewhere between an essay and a memoir.  (For some excellent examples, check out The Best Creative Nonfiction, Volumes 1, 2 and 3, edited by Lee Gutkind.) Thorn may argue that fiction is superior, and he may be right, but I don’t have the head for inventing stories; instead, I have a talent for finding meaning in the things that amuse or trouble me by writing about them.  One of the things that amuses and troubles me more than anything else is my parents and their two dogs, who happen to be visiting us right now.  If they should ever read this, which they probably won’t, they should not be dismayed; instead, they should be proud that their daughter has found a cheap alternative to therapy.

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Topic:  If Only They Knew

Hairy:  An Outline

Thesis:  I can enjoy spending time with my parents unless said enjoyment is inhibited by certain dog-induced conditions.  Such conditions might include (but are not limited to):

I. Being trapped in the incredibly hairy, dogsbody-smelling back seat of my parents’ SUV while Dad drives around and around downtown Portland looking for something that he thinks is on this street, or maybe this other street, but actually isn’t.

IA. One of the dogs is producing foul clouds of rancid gas, which I can’t help but consider, in the second it penetrates my nose and goes into my lungs, was recently in the intestines of a dog, nestled next to a glop of shit.

IB. It is the first warm, sunny day we’ve had in six weeks. I can see the sun outside the car – if I squint through the haze of dog-fart fumes – but I can’t get to it.

I. B1. I could open the door and leap out of the moving car, but I might injure myself in the process.

I. B. 1a. On the other hand, broken bones and months in traction might be preferable to smelling another dog fart.

IC. My disgust is mocked by my parents, who think the dog farts are funny, if not downright delicious.

II. My parents manage to override my stated preference that the dogs not be on the furniture, which I find bothersome and mildly disgusting because:

IIA. I picture the dogs’ exposed buttholes rubbing tiny particles of crap into our upholstery.

IIB. The dogs may have short hair, but they shed like Persian cats, and their hair attaches itself in droves to every surface. After my parents visit, I am sweeping and vacuuming up dog hair for MONTHS.

II. B1. My daughter and I do not have allergies EXCEPT for a mild allergy to dog dander.

II. B. 1a. I have mentioned this to my parents several times, but they have conveniently either not heard me, or heard me but ignored it.

II. B. 1b. My eyes have itched every day that they’ve been here, and it’s driving me mad.

II B. 1c. I’m not noticing a reaction from my daughter, except for occasional sneezing, a bit of congestion in the morning and some eye-rubbing, but who can say for sure what’s causing that?  I blame the dogs.

IIC. Mom skillfully sidesteps the no-dogs-on-the-furniture rule by asking if one of the dogs, who is feeling unwell, may rest in the chair on a blanket.

II C1. I say OK.

II C2. The next thing I know, a huge, dog-hair-encrusted blanket is hauled in from the car, draped over our couch, and both dogs are now allowed on the furniture all the time.

II C3. There is now no place for the people to sit – except for my parents, who do not care about sitting on dog hair.

IID. My default position on this is a sort of seething, suppressed anger.

II D1. I could just tell my parents how I feel, but that’s what normal people do, right?

II D 1a.  In my family of origin, we suppress and seethe, followed by a massive emotional blow-out, which we then pretend never happened. See? Nice and tidy.

III. So that explains why, when my father called me just now to tell me that he and Mom are going to go look at wood stoves in a town 40 minutes away, I was:

IIIA. Relieved.

IIIB. And a little disappointed, because I really would like to see them.

III B1. You know, ‘cuz they’re my parents.

III B2. And I love them.

Conclusion:  Ahh, the ties that bind. Ain’t it a bitch?

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Editor’s note:  Woof.