The Blame Game

The only reason I’m not in the jail cell formerly occupied by Michael Vick is that my dogs lack the opposable thumbs necessary for them to dial the number for the SPCA, PETA, or the federal prosecutor who sent Michael Vick to jail.

According to my dogs, I’m guilty of doggy abuse. But it’s really not my fault.

And apparently, I am responsible for the fact that my kid is failing math. But I also contend that it's not my fault.

The insurance company providing my homeowner’s coverage would very much like to make it my fault that the water heater burst, flooding my basement and causing approximately $50,000 in damage.

When I called to make the claim, the adjuster asked, “What did you do to your water heater?”

Now, I’ve been told I have an inappropriate sense of humor. And there are times when, if I were limber enough to get my foot into my mouth, that’s where it would be. But this was not one of those times. I wisely refrained from saying, “Aside from going downstairs and beating it with a hammer every afternoon? Nothing.”

I was stunned. What do people “do” to their water heaters that would make the insurance company ask such a question? It’s not like it’s a microwave and some idiot put the cat into it to dry her after a bath, then called the insurance company to report that the microwave was ruined beyond repair. It’s a water heater, and, as I told the adjuster, I don’t know how they work or even how to attempt messing one up.

Speaking of the cat, it’s my fault that parasite-ridden pussy needs a new home. After I decided to move to Florida and my kids chose to stay in Atlanta with their father, Lauren’s dad, who bought the cat, refused to let the cat live in his house. To his credit, he offered to put up a fence in his backyard. I know because I heard him tell Lauren over the phone that the cat could come live with them after he put up a privacy fence. I snickered, only my snicker was loud enough to qualify as a snort. He heard it and demanded to know why I was laughing at him.

Lauren said, “Because everyone knows a fence can’t keep in a cat, Dad.”

But that wasn’t really the reason I was laughing. I think it’s incredibly funny that he’s spending even more money to contain an already stupidly expensive pussy. Then again, it’s not the first time a pussy cost him a fortune. The other one cost him millions, and come to think of it, he’s still spending money trying to contain her, too.

Still, I find it hard to accept that I’m to blame. In my defense, I’d be thrilled if Lauren and her cat came to live with me in Florida.

The insurance adjuster’s next question was, “What have you been using your water heater for?”

“Ummm. Heating water?”

Evidently, my answers were correct, because the insurance company cannot find a way to blame me. They are paying for the damages.

My son’s math grade is perilously close to failure because his dad can’t manage to get him to school on time. He’s missed too many first period math classes. They’d like to blame me because I moved to St. Augustine, but I stand by my offer for Hunter to live with me in Florida.

That leaves the dogs. So how, you ask, am I abusing my dogs? It’s because I refuse to provide a place for them to lay their little heads at night.

I’m tired of buying beds for them because they tear them up. And those little bed shredders took it to the next level last night.

They sleep in my laundry room. On either side of the sink, there are open shelves lined with pretty decorative twig baskets. One basket holds light bulbs. One contains a hammer, nails, tacks, hooks, and various other small pieces of hardware. And one holds all the dogs’ toys.

I walked into the laundry room to wake the dogs up this morning to find their bed in a million little foam pieces. And generously sprinkled on top of the foam bits were a couple of broken light bulbs, the twigs from a mutilated basket, and approximately eighty-nine nails.

They literally slept on a bed of nails.

Since it was one of their own making, I refuse to replace it with a nice, new bed. And since they couldn’t report my alleged abuse, they retaliated by crapping on my porch.

So this is what I would like to say to my kids, their dad, the cat, my insurance company, and the dogs: Quit trying to blame me. You made your bed, now lie in it.