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 A few months ago an incident with my dog propelled me to move into my high school home with my father.  A widower, with a dog and 4 cats inherited from my mother and sister before their untimely passing.  First the cats went from my sister to my mother, and then from my mother to my father. 

I've been at the house for stretches of time over the past few years to dog and cat sit when my dad went out of town, on vacation, or simply had a late meeting.  

However, the dog incident pushed me into a situation -- where I would live in my old room (now a music room), and my dad would be there.

If you have read anything else on this blog you know I most often go along to get along - most things in life are not important enough to screw up relationships over, and at the end of the day ... leave things well with people.  You never know if it's the last time you will see them.

Already, you dear reader, can see the problem.  I will bend and sway to the breeze of my dad's every whim in order to make him happy and comfortable.

And when someone kisses your ass, it's hard to respect them.  So you pick on them, and say things like, "control your dog," at dawn's early light (okay, not quite, but 7:15a) when your LGD has to bark at the landscapers arriving with weed wackers and lawn mowers.