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A Husband’s Diary – Entry #2177

by Lucky Garvin

From years age: Herself is a bit tired of mortgage banking and wants a new job.  She would love to be an animal curator.  She so wishes to be involved with animals that she walks around the house practicing animal sounds.  For example, she will be wiping the counter and without warning, lift her head and bay at the track lighting, “Whooooo. Whooooo.” A wolf call. A bit unnerving. It’s a combination of a primal canine mating howl and The Little Engine Who Could.

“`Hoo-de-hoot’. That’s the Great Horned Owl, Gahvin.

`Hoo-de-hoot’.  Now that’s the Barn owl.

`Hoo-de-hoot’.  And that’s the rare Southern Owl of the North, Gahvin.  See?”

“Honey, if that’s truly how they sound, there may be a fall-off in mating this season.”

Still, her squirrel chatter is not too bad actually. It is generally rehearsed from our bed at first light, since that’s when squirrels wake up. “They’re out looking for nuts, Gahv.”  “Well, I know where they can find one if they can make it into the bedroom,” I grumble.  Her squirrel chatter and crow calls are quite the envy of the neighborhood.

When she cuts loose with her raccoon trill, it is pure melody for those of you who are interested. This may be heard from our bedroom window 11 PM to 3AM; you will recall that raccoons are nocturnal.( I wish they weren’t.)  Her wolf call is coming along but her `Rrrrrribbitt’ practiced in the bathtub, I mean, it is a frog call after all; (frogs-water, get it?) needs work as she would be the first to admit.  So she practices; takes 8-10 baths per day, has developed a patchy skin fungus and my water bill is up.  But she tells me its all well worth it. “You can’t put a price on a good `Rrrrrribbitt’, Gahv.”

I’m sure she is right.

We go to the huge warehouse store, Sams.  I get the cart and move to the middle of the warehouse and do ever-enlarging concentric circles. I get dizzy and sit down hard near the Cocoa Puffs.  “Your middle ear acting up, Gahvin? You have an attack every time we come here.”

She leaves me to go pick something up and hollers over her shoulder, “Get me some gravy!” I’ve been here before.  They’ve got 8 million varieties of gravy. Minimum. I yell to her, “What kind of gravy?”  Her voice trails back to me,

“The kind I want.”

Of course, there’s only one type of kitty litter she will buy and its three stories up on a rack, little clouds drifting by the pallets up there. Must set’m in place with a crane. Sign says: Don’t climb after the merchandize.  “Is this a big problem around here?” I mumble to myself staring straight up. “People bring in grappling hooks, pinions and oxygen masks to buy kitty litter? Small tents to pitch for the night half way up the side of the rack?”  Not me, Clyde. I’m going to risk my life so a cat can doo-doo in conformity with upper middle class expectations?  Right. Nope, I much prefer a natural death.

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