WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED?

Zeenie knows that having one of her balls in the house is a no-no. Why?

First she pushes the ball under a couch. Then Zeenie scratches on the rug and the surface of the couch to retrieve the ball from under it.

She loves this game but it plays hell with the furniture and the rug. Two of our couches now have to be sent out for fabric repairs.

Zeenie gets it. She knows not to have a ball in the house and if she does it has to be on the sly.

So, here we are with Zeenie under the bed with a ball thinking that she won't be discovered.

Under the bed is a favorite place of hers to hide out. When the pots and pans bang in the kitchen . . . which Zeen hates, ZOOOOOM, under the bed.

If Zeenie has found something she knows that she should not have, ZOOOOOM, under the bed she goes with it.

And if she's lucky enough to have brought a ball in the house and she has not been discovered, ZOOOOM, under the bed with it.

When you were a kid weren't you just a little bit afraid of what was under your bed when the lights went out? If you lived in our house there would be no doubt in your mind what freely habitates the underside any of our beds.

On the flip side of a dog being under the bed, there were time that my brother and I would hide under the bed when dad got home knowing we were in for a bare sided treatment with his leather belt. It was one of mom's things, "Wait until your father comes home" when she could not manage two boys who were all BOY in what they did and were always in trouble.

When my brother and I couldn't get under the bed in time we'd hide on top of the roof of the house we lived in, hid in a pile clothes that we had put on top of ourselves in the closet, hid under the car parked in the garage. hid in a space we created behind the couch that was against the wall . . . the list of hiding places was endless.

In the end we'd be found and always had our bare skinned butts blistered with a belt, a coat hangar or anything handy to good old dad . . . all the while he muttered, "This hurts me more than it is hurting you." Yeah, right.

This shit continued until I was close to 16 when one day the old man approached me to render his idea of child discipline and I said, "One of two things is going to happen if you lay a hand on me. One, you'd better get ready to fight because this time I'm coming back at you. Or two, Ill call the cops and let them settle this matter."

And that was the end of years of rear ended punishment.