When Old Dog and I were dating, I lived in St. Paul and he lived here in Ohio. On weekends when we couldn’t figure out a way to get together, Old Dog would go visit my Dad on Sunday afternoons. He’d sit on the couch and listen to Dad reminisce about serving in Afghanistan and Burma during WWII, about his years wheeling and dealing real estate, about growing up in western Kentucky coal country.
By the time I started making plans to move back to Dayton, Dad knew Old Dog pretty well. Since Dad loathed my first two husbands, I was nervous about hearing the review, but I respected his judgment enough to ask anyway.
“He’s a good man,” Dad said. “He’ll take care of you.”
As I breathed a sigh of relief, Dad said, “He’s slow, though.”
Dad nodded. “You’ll have to slow yourself down for him.”
Since Dad had the fastest Southern drawl ever clocked, and Old Dog’s hearing is pretty damaged from years of loud factory machines, I knew where this came from. I couldn’t resist sharing Dad’s critique with him, though.
“Slow?” he said, a grin spreading across his face.
I laughed. It’s hard to resist a man who can hear something like this and think it’s funny.
“Do you want to hear what he said about you?” he said.
My grin faded. I looked at him warily. “What?”
“He said, ‘Jeanne’s intelligent. She’s the smartest of all my kids. But I’ll warn you – she’s odd.’”
A word of advice: Don’t ever let your dad play Cupid.