Put Down The Drill and Step Away From the Project
Like all visits to the emergency room for compound fractures and multiple stitches, today’s cascade into a New Dimension Of Pissed Off began with the installation of the pet door.
Tools required: 3/8” drill bit, a saw I don’t know the exact name of but which I have, a level which I consider a tool for sissies and refuse to use, a screwdriver which thrilled me because what are jobs around the house if not made that much more fun with cocktails, and a few other tools I only know by sight because all my dad ever yelled was “NOT THAT THING! THE OTHER THING!”
First, we hold up the actual dog-door frame, noting where on the door this portal from God Forbid, A Dog Should Ever Be Outside into Ha! Said The Burglar, I Can Fit Through THAT! should be cut. So, I draw my lines, note the holes so that I can very shortly drill with all the precision of a surgeon, and remember with disdain the checkout person at the pet store.
Who was “chirpy.”
I don’t like chirpy. When I’m doing man things, like installing pet doors, the last thing I want is “chirpy.” I also don’t like it when my wife, who I love, hovers. And watches. I don’t know why this bothers me. All I know is that if my buddy were to go, “…you know I think you have the wrong size drill bit there,” I’d be all, “ha ha! you are THE BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD ILOVEYOUMAN!” and the next thing you know, we’d be stumbling drunk down the street bar-hopping with our arms around each other’s neck looking for fights just to prove how tight we were and how we just GET each other, right? But when my wife goes, “…you know I think you have the wrong size drill bit there,” all I hear is “…I love watching you do things around the house. It’s like watching my girlfriends. You’re a wuss and I think you could wear high heels.” Much to her credit, however, she left me alone to the project as soon as she heard what we’ve come to know in our family as The Tone. (She has The Look. I have The Tone. It works for us.)
So I grab the saw…I think it’s called a jig saw and I like that name because it makes me think of merry little dances with characters from my favorite childhood books. Books with titles like, “Johnny Severs A Limb,” and “Are You My Plastic Surgeon?”
This thing is a lethal weapon and should be banned in all fifty states because it is alive and has a mind of its own. And that little red laser super-straight beam of light it emits ensuring you keep your wits about you and keep a straight line throughout the sawing process? Yeah, no. My cuts looked like I thought it would be less useful to cut a square and more interesting to show the world that, yes, you can actually cut out what looks like a plate of spaghetti noodles.
And then this damn door’s nine thousand different beveled sections decided to get structurally attitudinal. And fall apart. Like a real life set of Tetris blocks or something. So, there I am with Additional Problem Number Six and now I have to somehow secure these beveled pieces back into the rest of the door. Which I actually do. And which we’re not going to actually explain. We’re just going to assume it all works out just fine. And it does.
Because I tell myself big fat lies. Lies like, “Bailey, the 110 pound and beloved Golden Recliner, will delicately step through this brand new doggie door with the quiet subtlety of a church mouse.”
Actual Truth: “Bailey has all the deftness of a wounded rhinoceros and the first time he comes barreling through this stupid thing, I fully expect the entire back half of the house to come down around my ears.” At which point my wife will turn to me and go, “…nice work. Can I borrow your new blouse?”
For manly men who can walk down the aisles of Home Depot with that practiced look of bored expertise: I hate you. By the end of this project, it looked like I took every tool Craftsman ever dreamed up, put them into a canon and shot them at the door.
But it works. And by “works,” I mean that I might as well have stapled posters around the neighborhood announcing to would-be prowlers that there’s no need to worry about that irritating snag of a dead bolt in the front when you can slip your fat ass through this dog door right around back.
So, yes, there is an actual opening in this door. And, yes, there is an actual flip-floppy plastic thing that swings to-and-fro fairly begging any animal to come hither and bask in the dry warmth of the laundry room and then bounce off the walls like I know every squirrel in a ten mile radius is going to do. But, alas, the dog still won’t use the stupid dog door I spent half a day installing. Apparently, Super Dog thinks it’s covered in doggie Kryptonite and he can’t get near it.
And, yes, I am drinking screwdrivers.
I feel your pain. If there’s one thing worse than being watched, however, it’s that look of surprise they give you when things actually work.