Stalker

I have a stalker. Really, I do. I go to the bathroom, I have a missed call. I run into the grocery store, I have a missed call. I pump gas, I have a missed call. I take a shower, two missed calls. And, it doesn't stop there! I am getting ready to walk out the door, a car pulls into the driveway. I sit at the kitchen table, with Shea resting calmly at my feet, when he suddenly goes nuts because someone is circling the house. Yes, I have a stalker. Call the police you say? That isn't the quick fix in my situation. You see, the stalker is my father.

My father, the one who wouldn't let me have a pet when I was growing up, has rapidly fallen in love with my dog. He's so head over heels in love with Shea that he needs to see him everyday. Some days I bring the big guy up to my parents' house so Shea can swim and run around the backyard. My dad loves it and begs me not to leave. Or at least, if I do need to go, to leave Shea with him. The majority of the week, I cannot do this. So in order to get his Shea fix, my father comes over to my uncle's house randomly. The door will suddenly open and he will appear. If the door is locked, he will walk around the house and come in the back porch. He will relentlessly shower Shea with attention until he has to go. 

Wow, this sounds more like my dad is stalking Shea and not me! This extreme behavior began once we found out Jeff got the job in Cleveland. With that, Shea and I will inevitably be moving to Cleveland in nine months. My father, as any father would, is having a hard time coming to grips with that fact. He feels as though I, his baby daughter, am slipping away from him. This of course is not true, as 450 miles will separate us, not oceans or the heavens above. However, with this vision of Jeff and I, and yes Shea too, in Cleveland, my father has reverted back to the days when I was 16. Where everything I did and went were under a microscope to observe and analyze.  

Being stalked really isn't fun. I feel sorry for Shea.