Adventures on the Front Lawn

“Does that look like there is a dog on our front porch?” I asked General Mayhem. We had just turned the corner onto our street while returning home from a VBS planning session. Our church’s VBS program this year is “Adventure on the High Seas,” but our program director made it perfectly clear that we are not doing anything piratey. No pirates. That means no Captain Jack and no chasing Somali pirates and shooting them. No lusty wenches or yo-ho-ho’s or bottles o’ rum.

Shoot.

How can we have high seas adventures without piratey stuff? We could pretend to be on a cruise ship and hold a shuffle board tournament. Or get mass food poisoning. The Bible tells us to put on the armor of God. Did He have a Navy, too? Can we command the Battleship Bethlehem and go to war against evil? Moby Dick? Jaws? Are we on the high seas? Should I dress like Cheech and Chong and lead the kids in some far out, groovy games? I really don’t know what the non-piratey adventure will be.

But I digress. There was a dog on my front stoop.

“Yes, it does,” General Mayhem replied to the question that opened this post.

Sure enough, Reggie the Rent-a-dog was sitting on the front stoop. She’s not supposed to be out of our backyard. I suppose that sitting on our front stoop was better than roaming the neighborhood or sitting in the city pound. When we pulled into the driveway she walked to the car, tail between her legs, happy to see us but well aware of the fact that she was where she was not supposed to be.

Right next to a chicken.

I wasn’t certain whether I should scold the mutt for being out or praise her for not running the hood. I ended up looking at her sternly, which elicited a droopy, hesitant tail wag. She was wet from playing in the Captain’s wading pool. I knew exactly what I needed to say to the chicken.

“Bad chicken!” I said.

“Bra-kaw!”replied Clumsy, before walking off in the opposite direction.

Chickens, I have discovered, really don’t respond well to “Bad chicken.”

A little while later, Reggie the Rent-a-dog demonstrated how she escaped the back yard when I put her out back, walked to the front, and called her. She’s bent the metal on the gate to our backyard, pushing aside the chain link with her snout to squeeze through to freedom. Apparently, she takes a chicken or two with her.

Maybe we should hold VBS in my front yard and call it Adventures on the Front Lawn.

Arrgh.

Happy Feet

I thought the Major had attached a Whoopee! cushion to the bottom of each foot when I followed him up the stairs tonight and listened to him blow mouth farts each time his foot hit a step. This came after he ran up to his mother and me and pulled up his King of Kings t-shirt (yes, that King of Kings) from one of last summer's Vacation Bible Schools to flash us his favorite pair of red briefs. They are a tad too small for him as well as a bit frayed in the waist band, but he nearly had a nervous breakdown last week when he discovered that the Boss had thrown them in the garbage. I assured him it was a mistake as I fished them out of the bathroom waste basket, hoping the entire time that they had been thrown away clean. He calmed down instantly, preventing the need for some deep breathing into a brown paper bag. The lad is really attached to his underwear.

I cannot recall ever being attached to a pair of my underwear. Of course, I cannot recall ever having a pair of red underwear, either. I've had a few pink shorts due to a laundry mishap, but to the best of my recollection my mother only purchased tighty-whities when I was young and I have absolutely no idea why I am writing this and even less of an idea as to why you've continued reading to the end of this sentence.

Big Doofus over at the Big Doofus Blog has offered to create a Beware of Chicken sign for my yard. I am going to take him up on his offer. Why not? I'm already known as the Chicken Guy in this town, due to our highly publicized battle with Councilwoman Vile and the rest of the Apathy city council. I might as well attract just a little more attention. And yes, Crossview, I was just joking about the rabies tag and collar on the chickens. The city actually requires a rabies tag on an ankle bracelet for each bird. That's less of a choking hazard. It's also much more stylish, and the clanking tag acts as a cow bell when you need to find one of the birds when they're wandering around in the dark. I appreciate Big Doofus' offer, as chicken attacks can be ugly, and we do not carry an insurance rider for rabid fowl. We couldn't afford the deductible.

General Mayhem is spending the week at Boy Scout camp. Of course, this means that it has rained in Biblical proportions each day since he left. Every television channel is interrupting normal broadcasting to show a map with a bright red splotch of bad weather perched directly over his tent. Tomorrow night I'm donning goulashes for the trip up to family night. I'm taking mercy on the boy and bringing him a dry sleeping bag and more dry socks. I get to see my first Boy Scout Camp bon fire/Indian Dance/whatevertheydo. I'm hoping for another storm, as I am certain that I will be bored to tears. I frequently am at these scouting functions. I know, I know. Don't send the emails. Bad dad.

Lastly, I was amused to see the Big Announcement by American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert, who tells the world in a Rolling Stones article that he's gay. The big question being asked is how this announcement will affect his career. Hmmm...a gay performer in Hollywood. Who would ever think such as thing could happen? Did you, Elton? How about you, Clay? Ellen? I have an entirely different question. Don't you have to have a career in order for it to be affected? Just askin'.