For Pops.

When I was about twelve, I became a sullen, bratty know-it-all. Thought my friends and I were just soooo cool, and acted like I hated my parents all the time. It pissed my dad off. He hadn't done anything to deserve it.

One summer evening, a bunch of friends and I were heading to my house after a movie. We had reached the edge of the front walk when a loud barking started from the upstairs window.

There was a moment of quiet before someone commented: "Woah, cool! Ester, you got a dog!"

And I'm thinking, No, we didn't. My parents have at least 6 more months of relentless begging from my brother and I before they'll cave.

And then it struck me.

I hung my head in shame -- morbid, awful, teenage angst-ridden shame -- and turned to meet my friend's curious faces. "No," I said. "It's my dad. Barking."

I stood there in utter humiliation as my friends stared at me in a sort of pity vs. ohmygoddwehavetosleepHEREtonight? kind of way. And then they started cracking up. And somewhere, deep down, my shame kicked into something else. A little belly spark of something that felt sort of good. Woah -- my dad was trying to piss me off back. And in a super-weird way. In a way that would forever put me at the top of the list for Most Mortifying Parents (a very prestigious title.) He cared that I was home late and was letting me know it.

All our fathers at the time were working too much, maybe in the middle of a divorce, mostly ignoring their suddenly obnoxious daughters. Not mine. He cared enough to bark.

I miss you, Dad. I miss you getting me back when I was acting all high & mighty. Thanks for my sense of humor. And all the good stories. My friends still bring that one up. But I bring it up more.