Exquisite irony

Bags of "gravats"

waiting to join the ones already lugged outside

My son slammed the door open (yes, it is possible), and let me know his displeasure in the most forceful of terms.

"That stupid dog," I noticed his hair was on end. Yesterday, when Baccarat did the same thing, he had laughed and said, "she ran ahead of me, and you know how she gets that Mohawk thing along her back."

But not today. Today, it was Sam's hair that was set on end, aggravated by the god, and probably his day at school.

"She ran out," he went on, furious with the dog and indignant as hell, "and ran all the way down the path. I couldn't get her to come back, and I had to run after her, and then she took off again and ran all the way across the field," and then he added the highly ironic finishing touch, "My back is killing me."

It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

Your back? You've got to be kidding, I thought. Open mouth, put your foot right in it.

Oh, the exquisite irony.
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