Daddy Day Camp Interrupted (kind of)

June 25, 2009

All praise to the threat of rain. Whew. Because it got my sorry ass out of the fields and off of the hook for that not-so-glorious summer pastime of haying. Ugh. There’s nothing like hay chaff and seeds sticking to sweaty arms and legs. Yum.

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The really bad news is that Daddy Day Camp had a setback as a result of … oh hell, I always have trouble with this word…work.

But we did manage to extend our camp hours into the evening last night and have yet another guest lecturer. This time it was none other than our esteemed and ever-so-fashionable neighbor, Ruby. I like Ruby – a lot. In fact, Ruby recently admitted how much she likes me. On a walk down our road with her father recently, she declared: “I love you, Michael.”

Yep, Ruby’s at that age where she loves me. Better yet, she’s at that age where she understands me. She’s two. And we’re buddies.

Okay, okay, I think she likes my horses more than me but I’m not going to make it an issue – yet. In fact, now that I think about it, she also likes my eleven-year old daughter more than me, too. And my wife, And our dog. But – hey – I’m on the Ruby Radar so I’m just fine with it.

Unlike our first guest lecturer, Ruby didn’t offer up any political rants or come armed with a six-pack. Nope. She came with a swagger and two simple words: “Ride. Horse.” Yes, they were uttered as if they were two one-word sentences.

And so we did.

Ruby, however, wasn’t scared like guest-lecturer-number-one. In fact, she was fearless. Which, of course, led all of the possible fear that could have existed to be channeled directly to her father who had the daddy-like task of keeping an eye on her.

“Please hold on, Ruby,” Chris repeated to his newly minted cowgirl for a daughter.

But, like guest-lecturer-number-one (this should tell you something, Dylan), Ruby rode Black Bart, named – by the way – after the Simpson’s character. Ruby taught us that no matter what was happening around her, giving Bart the “go” command was a whole lot of fun. The command, by the way, is a simple kiss to the air. And off he goes. Very. Slowly.

Because, truth be told, he really should be called “Fat Bart.” He’s half Percheron, half Canadian (a saddle horse bred north of the border), and, if there was another half left, I’d say half Labrador. As in: He’s more pet than beast – just like I like ‘em. 1500 pounds of pet, that is.

Thanks for playing, Ruby. We learned a lot. But, please, don’t ditch me when your emotional age passes mine in a few years.

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Before being called to sit on a tractor for hours on end yesterday, Bel and I managed to train our faithful dog, Buddy, how to sit still in a kayak.

The trick? Duck tape.

Just kidding.

The real trick? Doggie-genetics. The little fella just listens to me, unlike anyone or anything I’ve ever encountered except perhaps Big Jim. Truly, I’ve never had a dog – especially a mere one-year old – come to me when I called him.

In the past, when I called a previous dog of mine (rest in peace, all of you), it was akin to me walking about the yard and yelling any random word or – depending on the syllables at hand – a combination of words.

“Come lunch meat! Here porcupine! Hello marmalade! Get over here Situationist!”

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

But not Buddy. The dog just comes. Weird. Is there something wrong with him? Oh no, there I go again.

So, not surprisingly, Buddy did the whole kayak thing perfectly. Bel and I were fully prepared for a swim, even talking through a plan to stay close to the shores of the Wrightsville Reservoir and just “have fun” with whatever little swim we expected to take.

But there was no swim, only a wickedly fun kayak with “The Three ‘Ds’: Daddy, Daughter & Dog.” No complaints, my friends.

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The trick, however, is to make all of the above look and sound like – oh no, here comes that word again – work when the lady with the full-time job arrives home in the evening. The lady, of course, is my wife and Bel’s mom, Stacy.

All praise to you, sweetie. And also to the women’s liberation movement which, of course, led to guys like me to be able to stay home while the women pursued professional achievement.

Yee-fucking-hah.

Posted by M. Colby | Filed Under blog