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A Case of Wishful Thinking

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Some actually believe if it weren’t for mules, men would be the dumbest creatures on the planet. Hearing and comprehension don’t equate. Yesterday proved the position of my lowly estate.




It was like this, see.  I come home, stagger through the door, beat up from another onslaught of the details of life. I need TLC, some hints of marital bliss, a reprieve from the war dogs of the world. 

"Hey, I’m home.  Silence greets me. I repeat, Uh, helloooo, the Pack Leader is home.  My wife’s voice answers from the bedroom, Oh, you sweet boy, how are you feeling?

Exhausted.  You should hear what I’ve been through today, I shout.

You poor darling. Maybe you’ll feel better if you take a nap. Her voice drips with affection. All men should have wives that are so caring, I think.  I pour myself a stiff single malt, two fingers, two ice cubes and a splash. I plop down, prop up my feet and pick up the newspaper.  

She speaks. How ˜bout we take a walk on the beach. Maybe you’ll feel better. Besides, I always enjoy showing you off, she says. I ignore the suggestion; mutter incoherently something about the state of politics and the idiots in DC.

Would you like me to tickle your tummy? she says with a sexy sigh that would melt steel. Tickle my tummy? Hmmmm.  I lay down the paper, wondering what she’s been up to. Unusual behavior. Probably bought jewelry, I conclude. And it’s not even dark. Tummy tickling is a nocturnal sport.

No? she says. How about I run a nice hot tub and bathe you. Would you like that? Things are looking up already. I’m a lucky guy. What a wife!

Ok, if not that, why don’t you just put your head on my soft pillow. Oh, I bought you a surprise today, she says.

I answer, I hope it’s edible.  I’m starving. It’s so nice to have a wife who thinks about my needs.  I take another sip of scotch.

"Precious, were you a good boy today? Did you do all your business? What’s with her, I wonder.  What does she think I do when I go to work? Yes, I did all my business today, thank you. Why? I answer.

Well, sweetie, you seem so tired and irritable.  Have you been playing with that cutie up on 37th Street again? 

What, the 37th Street cutie?  What does she suspect? Ok, so I know her, but she’s not really what you’d call a cutie. Besides, she’s not my type anyway. Somebody’s spreading lies. I defend myself, NO, baby, I was at the office all day. Ask my staff. I’ve been a good boy.

Maybe you’d like to invite her over this weekend.  We could all three play some fun games, get to know her better, she says. She’s baiting me, I know. Something’s going on. I need to find out what.

How’s your little leg today, my big boy? she asks.  How thoughtful, she remembers I have bursitis in my hip.  Gonna live, I say. I don’t know what’s come over her, but I approve.

Listen, my sweet angel, I really wish you’d be more careful about the accidents you’re having around the house lately. Do you need to visit the doctor? I’m tired of having to clean up after you, she says in a slightly menacing tone.

I reply in a weak, defensive voice, I’m sorry, baby.  I forgot to tighten the lid on the cranberry juice when I shook it.  I’ll scrub the red polka dots off the wall tonight, I promise.

Oh, I forgive you, sweet darling. You’re a male.  Accidents happen. Besides, I like the way you lick my ears. I know you love me when you do that.

Ah, things are heating up.  Keep up that sweet talk, baby, I’m feeling frisky already, I say. I can’t figure what’s gotten into her, but whatever it is, I’m excited about the possibilities.

I’m a man of action. I pitch the paper, grab my violin and head towards the sweet voice in the bedroom. I’m thinking music and romance.

I open the door and freeze in my tracks. There she is, lying on the chaise and cuddling with Mac, our dog. My ego crumbles into dust at my feet. I’m convinced Mac smiled and winked at me!


After the shock, we had a big laugh. And now I wonder: What if all our relationships were laced with doggie talk¦imagine the possibilities!
Editor’s Note:  Visit Bud’s blog and enjoy his vast collection of musings at theweaklypost.com.  He can also be reached by email at BudHearn@mindspring.com.

Illustration courtesy of Leslie Hearn.

Bud is a farm-boy, raised in a farming community is SW Georgia. Farm experiences continue to give him particular insights into life. He attended the University of Georgia, graduating with a BBA-Real Estate with a minor in English. He was a member of the Sigma Nu Fraternity. He moved to Atlanta in 1964 where for 50 years he has had a career in land and other real estate investments.

Bud moved to Sea Island, Georgia in 2004, where he now resides and where he continues in the real estate investment business.

His varied interests include long-distance running (and other athletic endeavors); travel; musical pursuits, including piano, violin and banjo; and writing. Writing has always been a passion. As Bud says, “Sometimes I feel like a short dog in tall grass when comparing my written thoughts to those in the literary Hall of Fame. But then, I remember that life is like a dog that buries bones in the sands on a one-way ticket to Mecca…vanity of vanities. So, I write, leaving some of my bones in the sands of time as I move on.” You can find more of his writings on his website, www.theweaklypost.com.

He can be reached at budhearn@mindspring.com.

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