The dog pulled my rose out of the ground last night. I was so mad I had to put him in the house to keep from beating him with the rose. And yet, the Butcher’s sick, so I had to get up and walk the dog and not be a giant dick, because he doesn’t remember why I’m mad at him.
I don’t know how people with kids do it. Because knocking the shit out of another creature, especially a creature who isn’t really intending to upset you, is wrong. But man, it would have been so satisfying to make the dog as upset as I was. And kids are easy to upset.
So, you have to be able to both be hugely pissed, because things happen and you’re hugely pissed when someone tramples your garden and tears up your rose, and you have to consistently, every time, not give over to that anger and instead try to find some way of curtailing behavior without hurting your children. That’s got to be so fucking hard. And, sometimes, they do shit on purpose.
I don’t know. Just, sometimes, I have these feelings, these kinds of monstrous rages. Not often, but often enough, that it makes me relieved I never had kids. I mean, I don’t think that feeling, that suspicion, that knocking the shit out of something would be so fucking satisfying, comes out of nowhere. I think that’s a mixture of nature and nurture. We’ve got those impulses and we’ve taught ourselves to act on them, generation after generation.
Well, this is a depressing post. But the dog remains unbeaten. I’ve passed no terrible ways of dealing with the world to a next generation. The rose isn’t obviously dead this morning.