Tiger
I have
always been a model of obedience and compliance in spite of what Ann, my wife,
might have told you. Suffice it to say
that any negative comments she may have made to the contrary are to be ignored
since she has been known to carry a grudge for a very long time. Take Tiger, for example. Tiger was a stray cat we took in about
forty-five years ago when we were a young married couple living in Washington
State. Even though I was kind enough to
allow Tiger to eat and sleep at our place free of charge, his demeanor toward
me always seemed to be a mixture of arrogance and disdain.
Tiger loved to lay on our driveway and warm himself in
the sun. So much so that he considered
that spot in the driveway as his personal and private property. Each time I would approach the driveway and try
to drive the car into the garage, Tiger would just lay there and stare at me as
if to say, “This is my spot and you
better not try driving past here.” His
game of chicken would always end at the last second with a quick little
sidestep to avoid me running over him as I drove the car into the garage. And then came that fateful day when he didn’t sidestep. Actually, I don’t know whether he forgot, or just
moved too slowly in his declining years.
Whatever the reason, we held a nice memorial and then buried him in
grass town, a place in the woods where the neighborhood dumped their lawn
clippings.
I thought that after Ann’s initial tirade against my
ineptness as a driver, things would calm down and we could go back to being
friends. Silly me. The untimely exit of Tiger continues to come
up every time Ann becomes upset with something that either I do wrong or I
didn’t do but should have. Forty-five
years later I am still being punished for that minor flaw that crept into my
otherwise sterling character all those years ago. Today, as I am writing this column, it is our
fifty-ninth anniversary and I already know what Ann will say when we sit down
later today for a celebratory supper at a nice eatery where I will order my
usual extra-large portion of buttermilk-battered French fries. Instead of, “Bob, my darling, thank you for sticking by me all these years. I have loved every minute of our time
together.” I suspect she will say, “I should have known that someone who would
run over my favorite cat would order that culinary disaster. Your gastronomic choices have filled my life
with long periods of worry and despair.”
A week ago I tried a dry-run of our planned celebration of
Ann’s birthday hoping to develop a husband/wife communication technique that
would help me avoid the reprimand I was certain to receive at the real
celebration. We were in Logan, so I took
Ann to Chick-Fil-A, one
of her favorite places to eat. She loves
the grilled chicken, and I love the waffle fries. Especially when she happens to forget that a
waffle fry is just a lacey version of a French fry. When we arrived we found the place full of
people. I don’t mean kind of full. I mean chuck full as in almost no place to
sit. There were adults, teenagers, and a
whole bunch of little ones running in and out of the play area dropping food
and spilling drinks as they ran back and forth beneath the sign that said, No drinks or food in the play area. And the adults who were supposed to be
watching them were oblivious as they busily chatted with each other. The reason for all this activity, we noticed
from the sign at the entrance, was that this was customer appreciation day, and
anyone who came in dressed as a Holstein cow would receive a free chicken
sandwich. We were surrounded by people wearing
cow’s ears, tails, faces and arms covered with Holstein spots, and a few customers
with make-believe udders. Because Ann
and I were the only customers dressed as people, we were the only ones who had
to pay for the chicken sandwiches we ordered.
We completed and paid for our food, fought our way to the only two seats
available, sat down, and then Ann said, “All
these people in cow costumes are cute.
Tiger would have loved this. Too
bad someone didn’t allow him to live.”
And that is how our dry-run ended.
Well, maybe I am exaggerating a little, but I knew what she was
thinking.
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