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Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson

Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson

Nelson and I had words this morning. Well, okay, I mostly listened while he barked his dang fool head off. And if you’ve never been on the receiving end of a poodle scolding, you have no idea how ear-bleeding it can be. You’d think miniature poodles, being smaller dogs, would have a yappy little bark. But you’d be wrong. They’re exceptionally loud and pitched at this absolutely piercing tone. And the Admiral (normally known as just Nelson, unless he’s in a mood) is a rather insistent communicator, particularly when it’s time for his rum (and by rum, I mean his morning’s ration of 2 dried sweet potato fries – I don’t actually give the Admiral spirits :)). I admit I was a little slow after turning off the alarm. It was, after all, o-stupid thirty in the morning and I was still trying to find two socks that matched and, oh yeah, where the *bleep* did my glasses get to after they fell off the bed last night?

So we had words. I first asked that he use his indoor voice. Didn’t work. Then I made him sit, hoping following one command would lead to him following another – you know, like, “no bark”. And indeed he sat, then got up again and started in on me some more, going on about how inappropriate it was for a mere Lieutenant to be giving commands to an Admiral. That’s when I snapped (followed quickly by a popping sound as my eardrums burst). Alas, I had forgotten that snapping my fingers, which I’ve always had trouble with anyway, is a hand signal for him to stand on his hind legs and walk in a circle. Which he did, then became even that much more insistent for his rum. He’d done a trick, after all, he informed me LOUDLY. The treat should be forthcoming. Pronto.

Meanwhile, around us, the rest of the family slumbered on in their hammocks behind their closed cabin doors. Or at least pretended to slumber because unless they’re dead, there’s no way they could have slept through the Admiral’s tirade.

So I did what any seaman would do in the face of irreconcilable differences with their captain. I became insubordinate. I refused to give him his share of the rum. He accused me of mutiny. I told him I was going to rouse the rest of the crew and we were going to make him walk the plank.

I won’t repeat his reply – not in polite company and besides the shrillness of it would make YOUR ears bleed. But suffice it to say I wound up on the plank (and by plank, I mean in my car on the Kennedy at rush hour, which is the same thing, right up to and including the man-eating sharks), and the Admiral managed to get the somnambulistic 12-year old bo’sun to give him his rum after I’d gone into the drink (and by gone into the drink, I mean gone to work).

There is no justice on this ship. I’ll probably have to spend the weekend swabbing the deck. Oh, wait, I’d have to do that anyway, no one else cleans the floors around here. And I say again. There is no justice on this ship. Grumble, grumble, grumble, mutiny, mutiny, mutiny.

Hope you’re all having a better Friday! And if you don’t hear from me over the weekend, it probably means I’ve gotten myself locked in the brig.

Illigetimi non carborundum!