I, Brutus

Dad, cosplay, and a dog (first of two shorts based on my Dad)

Photo by AkuAku

My dad, for reasons known only to him, decided to dress as the King of Siam. I don’t know if he’d recently seen the King and I musical, or had heard something about it, but I guess he thought it would be fun.

Dad transformed into the king by wrapping a white towel on his head, wearing an old silk robe, and draping a sheet regally over his shoulders.

Oh, he was a sight!

I almost forgot. Besides shoving his feet into mom’s bedroom slippers and tying little bells to the slippers’ bows, he also completed his costume with a walking stick, which was really mom’s yardstick that she used when sewing.

We heard him before we saw him, heard the tinkle of the bells as my brother, mom, and I were tidying the kitchen after a late supper one evening. As he entered the room, we all turned towards the sound. He proudly lifted his head, but tilted it as the towel threatened to unravel. He stood before us, hand on hip, clutching the yardstick. I thought we would all puke from laughing. Mom had to pull out a chair and sit; she was laughing so hard.

One of our dogs, Brutus, so named because, although affectionate to family (and friends we introduced to him), was quite a “brute” to strangers. Well, Brutus, hearing the laughter, sauntered into the room, tail wagging, ready to join in the fun.

Then he saw dad.

He immediately stopped in his tracks and we heard a deep growl rumble up through his chest as he bared his teeth. Then, I swear, almost as if he were on springs, he was across the room in one leap, landing directly in front of my dad with teeth flashing as he snarled and growled.

My poor father backed into a corner and shouted.

“Brutus, it’s me! It’s me! Brutus!”

All the while, he held the yardstick in front of him, which Brutus took in his mouth and gnawed, leaving it all slimy with his spittle before my dad could wrest it from his jaws.

You might have expected us to rush to his aid, but my brother and I were on the floor, rolling around with laughter while mom was bent double in the chair with her hand across her stomach, tears streaming down her face.

Dad, meanwhile, was truly cornered with Brutus moving in for the kill. With one last attempt to save himself, dad ripped off the towel and cape with one hand, yelling as Brutus lunged.

“Brutus, it’s me! See? It’s me!”

I don’t know why Brutus stopped. I guess he had finally recognized dad. Mom said the potent smells of the mothballs from his old robe masked dad’s familiar smell, and the turban covered his face and head, plus he had tied those bells to the slippers. Anyway, Brutus calmed down and dad tentatively presented his hand for Brutus to sniff. Brutus sniffed his hand, licked it in apology, and dad patted him on the head.

Dad was quite upset with us for not coming to his aid. I heard my parents talking on the way to their bedroom that night as I lay quietly in bed.

“That dog could have eaten my balls for dinner, and none of you would have cared,” my dad said.

Mom replied with a soft chuckle as they walked down the hall to their room.

Author’s Note

1. My father was a guy who loved to laugh and loved to be surrounded by a group of friends and family as he told his tales. Both my parents were storytellers. Whenever my father was not working and at home for our bedtime, my brother and I used to beg him to tell us stories. (It gave our Mom a break.) Most stories he made up entirely. Some he fashioned by embellishing events. Others were true stories made better by his telling.

2. Read the other short story based on my Dad, The Flying Cockroach.

   The Flying Cockroach

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