A Brief Tour of My Doghouse

This one’s for the gentlemen. Ladies, you may read it if you like, but please try not to snigger too loudly. Indeed, this may be of some interest to my female readers, as they may get some ideas from it. But today’s post is really aimed at the guys. I want to give my comrades, my amigos in agony, a brief tour of my doghouse in hopes that I might get a small peek into theirs, just to compare notes. So often we only know our own doghouses and never glimpse those of others.

It so happens I’m not officially living in my doghouse right now; I’m just visiting. Perhaps this might explain my dry, dispassionate, almost professorial air. Usually I don’t arrive here of my own volition, you see. I am ordinarily delivered here against my will and thrust bodily through these two-inch thick steel doors into the reception area, only to hear the ominous, metallic clang of those impervious doors as they are emphatically shut behind me. You’ll notice as we enter that I am leaving them ajar, as they do not unlock from the inside. Please take care not to close them after you step through or we’ll be trapped for an indeterminate length of time.

Well, gentlemen, perhaps you’re impressed by the size of my doghouse? You can see from this reception area it’s quite large, isn’t it? I can tell you it’s constructed of the finest quality building materials. It’s virtually earthquake-proof, fire-proof, and flood-proof. My doghouse can withstand an atomic blast, a 50 megaton direct hit. Superman can’t save me from it because the walls are lined with kryptonite. Although you might think this vast rotunda is made of marble — which is itself strong — think again. These walls and the floor upon which you stand are made of a carbon-based substance known as castigite, which is stronger than diamond and harder than the hardest heart. I defy you to find the slightest scratch mark anywhere, although I have broken my nails upon these walls often enough. Knock on these walls anywhere to find a hollow or weak spot. You can’t, can you? And notice, mounted upon these walls at regular intervals, are unlit torches. I assure you that these torches have never been animated by the slightest spark. A single word is inscribed on all of them. You, over there, look closely at one and read what it says, nice and loud, so we all can hear. What was that again? Yes, gentlemen, each of these torches have the same word written upon them: hope — extinguished hope.

Undoubtedly the first thing you noticed as you entered was that portrait you see hanging there. It’s me, of course. Do you recognize the look of bewilderment? Come, come now, gentlemen, that expression is universal. The hands raised defensively and shoulders shrugged questioningly. The incipient signs of mounting terror in the eyes. The word, “What?” forming on the lips. The general attitude of defeat and hopelessness. Don’t pretend you can’t empathize or say you’ve never experienced this. You over there, you’re shaking just looking at it! And all around, in between the cold, never-used torches, are smaller paintings of broken men in various stages of despair, commonly depicted in some form of servitude or supplication. My wife decorated my doghouse herself, gentlemen. What do you think of her handiwork? Is it not complete? Can you not already feel the desolation? And yet we haven’t even passed through the four doors you see surrounding us. Come, let us see what’s behind door number one.

This is the Chamber of Mysteries. Why is it called that? Anyone? Yes, you over there, what was that? Very good, quite right. Because I often don’t know what it was I did. Here is where I frantically search my mind to figure out what the hell got me into the doghouse in the first place. Was it something I said? Or did? Or didn’t do? Was it something that happened years ago that has been exhumed, dusted off, and given new vitality? An ill-considered remark made at a party in 1998? Or, say, not painting the living room as quickly as I said I would in 2002? Tell me, gentlemen, what are your Chambers of Mysteries like? Do yours have medieval torture instruments like mine does? How about this iron maiden? Or the rack? Or the thumb screws? Why they’re here I don’t precisely know; perhaps my wife thinks they’ll help spur my mind and determine my offense without having it plainly spelled out for me. I have spent many, many hours in this chamber, gentlemen.

Proceeding, let’s have a look behind this next door. This is the Room of Serious Reflection. You see, once I have determined my crime, here is where I go to ponder its magnitude, to fully appreciate the unprecedented horror of my folly. Please notice the many mirrors that line the walls. Some are modern and others antique. Note the various sizes and shapes. Several magnify. They are all for me. They have been thoughtfully provided so I can gaze into them and see myself for the depraved, inconsiderate brute that I am. I admonish you not to look into them yourselves, for few have the nerve to do so without losing all self-worth. Indeed, I cannot remain in here for very long myself. Let us go, gentlemen, quickly now. Avert your eyes and leave!

This third door leads to the Cell of Penance and Self-Flagellation. I invariably arrive here shot through and through with guilt, reduced to a loathsome insect of a man, filled with remorse and contrition. Here on this hanger you may see the hair shirt I typically wear, and this is the whip I usually apply to my back until I fall whimpering to my knees. Over here to our left is a wall dominated by a huge blackboard. Let’s read it in unison, shall we? “I will never look at another woman again. I will never look at another woman again,” over and over. And notice this chalk, gentlemen. It is magical chalk — it never wears out. You can write with it forever. I can’t tell you how familiar this chalk feels in my hand.

And last, to end our tour, is the Hall of Discarded Boyfriends. My wife built this one just last year; she thought it would be good for me to review the faces of those who came before. Don’t be put off by the sight of all these mounted human heads, or of the frightening expressions on each of them. Let’s see who they are. Ah, yes. Pedro the Despicable. Felix the Inconsolable. Miguel the Contemptible. Salvador the Ignominious. Hector the Disreputable. Luis the Reprehensible. And so on. You see they seem to go on forever, don’t they? They are the poor, wretched souls who have passed through here before me. God have pity upon them

So, gentlemen, that concludes our sobering little tour — I hope you have found it educational. Please, if you feel courageous enough, invite me to your doghouse sometime. Step this way. Don’t mind the german shepherd at the door, he’s been fed. Thank you for coming. Bye bye now.