A dad problem

There are always two sides to every story, and before I go on, I will say that there were no animals harmed in the making of this column. Still, there is what actually happened and what we want people to believe happened; the latter of the two usually is the one where we make ourselves look better. So, without further ado, we will begin with the story where I try to impress everyone with how capable and, well, cool, I am.

I got the call at 1:30 am and instantly did the dramatic 1989 Michael Keaton head turn when he sees the bat signal. There was imminent danger at my daughter’s house, and much like Gotham City she needed rescuing. There was a “Dad” problem, and as dad I launched myself into action. At this point, cue the Hollywood montage.

I tied back my long hair (which had suspiciously grown to suit the emergency) with a makeshift bandana and donned war paint with two deliberate and dramatic strokes. My inventory check included hunting knives (at least three that were visible), a bandoleer of ammunition slung across my chest (no shirt, of course), and a fully loaded M-16 and rocket launcher. One cannot take any chances when responding to evil after all.

So, with my pajama bottoms cinched up by another ammo belt and two .44 Magnums, I hurled myself out into the night. No shoes, of course, because there was no time for something so trivial, and if Bruce Willis didn’t need them, I didn’t either. My armored response vehicle thundered down the dark country road while a dramatic soundtrack played over the PA system.

Within minutes I had arrived, and kicked open the door because, well, it’s hard to turn a doorknob while holding an M-16 and a rocket launcher. The danger reared larger than life in the kitchen and without preamble I unloaded the M-16’s clip. It was, of course, unfazed by the firepower, and before I could bring the rocket launcher to bear, it attacked. Wrapped in the beast’s steel coils, I couldn’t pull the .44 but was somehow able to unsnap the sheath and pull one of the hunting knives. That’s when the real battle began.

The kitchen table splintered and chairs were thrown about the room as we struggled. I was slammed into the wall with crushing force, and timbers were shattered. What followed was grunting, roaring, and more dramatic theme music. I kicked the beast in its terrifying maw with my bare foot while I hammered the top of its head with the butt of my hunting knife and a broken wallboard that was somehow conveniently within reach. And when at last it was over, I threw the beast down and said something that I have forgotten in all the excitement, but I am sure it was really clever.

Okay. We all know that’s not what actually happened, if for no other reason than I have not gone barefoot since around 1975. So, here is the real story.

My wife woke me up at around 1:30 am Sunday morning to tell me our daughter was on the phone and that she had a “Dad” problem. She handed me the phone and I grunted, pried myself from a really comfortable bed, and put on my slippers as my daughter explained to my barely functioning brain that she had found a snake in her kitchen.

That got my attention, and though it was a better wake up than coffee, I still needed that too. I made a pot while she explained that the snake (about a foot long, she said) might have crawled into her pantry. I told her to put the dogs up and I would be there soon. Hardly a damsel in distress, she simply said “okay” and that she was sorry for waking me up. I told her not to worry about it and that I would see her soon.

I got dressed, complete with shoes and a shirt, and put a hat on. I filled up my travel mug and grabbed a pair of gloves and a garden hoe. Honestly, I don’t know much about snakes, so I wasn’t intending to take any chances. I didn’t take any hunting knives, though I do carry a pocketknife most of the time, and my response also didn’t include any high-powered ordinance. If I blew a hole in the wall, I would be the one who had to fix it after all. Then I got into my Honda CR-V to drive the five miles to my daughter’s house.

My Honda isn’t armored, but it does have heated seats which are very nice in the winter. It is a country road, but high speed at night is ill advised because of a large deer population, not to mention possums, raccoons, and other loose animals. When I got there the door was open and I talked for a few minutes before addressing the problem at hand. I put on my gloves and began moving some things around to facilitate finding the culprit who had dragged me from a nice, comfortable bed.

The “beast” was coiled quite comfortably on top of a box sitting on a kitchen chair and didn’t seem overly concerned that I had shown up to evict him. With minimal effort I was able to scoop him into an empty box, close the lid, and carry him outside where I set him free a good distance from the house. The whole process, less travel time and conversation, took no more than 10 minutes. Soon I was on the road back home, where I promptly sat down and wrote this column.

So, there is an admittedly exaggerated example of two versions of the same story. You can feel free to believe either version, of course, or neither. Personally, I prefer the second one because it involves fewer contusions and property damage. And I was able to solve a “Dad” problem with minimal muss and fuss, which is important because dads like to fix problems when they can.

Even if they have to get out of a comfortable bed at an absurd hour to do so.

Contact the writer at charles@cartercountytimes.com