Homecoming

"At least please tell me Lucy hasn't chewed any more holes in the floor," I said, surveying the ruined landscape of my house. Aforementioned dog was scrabbling up the leg of my dress slacks, doing her best to put a hole in them instead.

"Do you have any idea how busy I've been?" asked the Lovely Bride .

"Why are you home?" asked my middle son.

I'd been traveling for the better part of three weeks. Apparently absence doesn't always make the heart grow fonder.

"We're having company for dinner tomorrow," I said.

Blank stares. Jesus.

"I'll pay you twenty bucks to clean the house," I told my oldest son, resignedly.

"Twenty five," he said.

"Thirty if you kill the dog," I said. Lucy was chewing on my arm.

"Thirty five if you kill Dad," said my youngest.

"Love you tons," I told him, chasing him around the kitchen.

"Is your mother coming over this weekend?" the Lovely Bride asked, trying to ignore the chaos that had increased significantly since I'd walked in.

"She's down south. Savannah. Charleston. Her own personal March to the Sea. She's opening a case of whup ass on Johnny Reb."

"Why do you say things like that?" asked the Lovely Bride.

"Because they're funny," I said.

"They're stupid," said my oldest.

"Thank you," I said.

"That doesn't make sense," said my middle child.

"Mairzy doats and dozy doats," I said.

"What?" he said.

"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves," I added.

"I get it," said the youngest. He was laying on his back while the dog chewed on his arm for a change.

"You're a moron," the oldest told him.

"It's funny because it's true," said the middle boy.