A Weekend of . . . Joy?

My aunt visited over the weekend (which I hope explains the delayed blogging; sorry).  She likes music.  A particular type of music, which she puts on when she comes over, and my dad 'ooo's and 'ahhhh's as if he actually likes it.  I, on the other hand, can't quite figure it out.

"They wear dresses," I said to The Dog.

"That's not even a criticism, and you know it," he replied.

"I know that's a week comment, but it's a bunch of guys getting together in robes to sing in Latin.  How is that cool?"

"Actually," said The Dog, "everything your aunt played this weekend was in English."

I stared at him.

"You're kidding."

"I am always deadly serious about English choral music."

"Now you're kidding," I said.

"You see right through me," said The Dog, "but the lyrics were all English."

"How are you supposed to understand any of it?" I asked.  "It's like a group of injured people gathered in a church and decided to moan in four-part harmony."

"You really don't like it?" asked The Dog.

I shrugged.  "It's not my favorite."

"Now that I think about it," he said, "we've never really talked about music.  I always ask you to put on my CD's, but somehow I don't know what you like."

"John Denver," I said, without hesitation.

"Now you're kidding," said The Dog.  "You don't even own any John Denver."

"Country road..." I sang.

"Stop it," he said.

"Take me home...to the place..."

"Knock it off."

"I belong!  West Virginia..."

"I'm leaving," said The Dog.

I took pity on him and stopped.  Then I started singing 'Thank God I'm a Country Boy.'

--Pete