The words over at Three Word Wednesday at modify, obedient and veil. There are no bad dogs or bad children, just bad owners – and parents.
I’m a horrible child, if you want to know the whole truth of it.
My parents had no choice to ship me off to obedience training, not after the last time I set the sofa on fire. And I don’t blame them in the least.
(Matches, man, show me one of those folded packs of cardboard, with those happy little heads made out of sulfur and potassium chlorate and I lose it.)
Six weeks with a trainer/handler and I’m a different person, a Responsible Young Man. Of course, she modified my behavior with a steady diet of electro-shock therapy and a chloroform-soaked newspaper rolled tight into a baton, but whatever works, right?
I no longer wet the bed, chew up mom’s expensive pumps or charge the neighbor when playing in the front yard. Still having a little bit of trouble with the whole garbage can thing, but the vitamins are helping, I think.
I’m even allowed out in the evenings, free to roam the house sometimes without that stupid electric collar that sends a few volts through the system anytime I start screaming at the mailman or head toward the junk drawer where dad keeps that luscious box of kitchen safety matches.
How do I do it, you ask? How do I not turn on them?
Well, they do feed me and clothe me and hang a roof over my head. And don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful and all.
But this obedience thing is really just an act. A veil I wear across my face, making it a blank canvas of submission.
Biding my time. Biting my lip, until it bleeds if I have to, waiting, watching.
For the right time to torch this everlasting motherfucker, and everything in it.