I hated the leather couch before I even set eyes on it. I begged my father not to buy it; “Think about the poor helpless cows you’re killing! How do you sleep at night with that on your conscience”? The not so subtleties of my teenaged self righteousness were at an all time high that year (I spent the couple months that followed crying over the tree in the side yard that my mother insisted on chopping down). Much to my dismay, one Sunday afternoon, the beast was dragged into the house through the back door, its monstrous wooden legs taking out a glass window on its way in.
The following photo series documents the metamorphosis of the leather couch, from my father’s well cared for, immaculately kept, treasured territory, into the sunken in, fur covered oasis for my family’s two bratty, but beautiful, Golden Retrievers.
Originally adamantly against the adoption of both pups (Missy and Lucy), he complained vehemently about their muddy paws, the way they barked at the squirrels at 7 a.m. and the constant slew of dog hair that blew across the hardwood floors like tumble weeds in the Mohave Desert. However over time, though he will deny it to his death bed I am sure, he has come to love the dogs, who he now refers to as “the girls” (my two sisters and I apparently have been stripped of that title…) taking them on long walks through the woods of his own accord, sneaking them the fatty ends of the New York strip steak under the table, and talking to them when he thinks no one is listening (we hear you, Dad).
When the dogs invited themselves on to the couch and he didn’t have a conniption, I knew he had finally lost it.
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