“Life with Smuffy (Episode 6): “Project Pinky” (or, “The Concrete is in Your Head!”)

As the years go by, I find that events are often recalled in association with something Smuffy has done.  In mid-conversation, one of us is bound to insert, “Wasn’t that around the time that he…?”  As we near the close of August, my mind returns to the events of August 29, 2015 and, I imagine, they always will.

It was a leisurely Sunday afternoon – for some of us.  Pookie had asked if she could come by and have my assistance with an artsy little project that took four hands – well, maybe six, but we had four.  I was happy to oblige.  She wanted to put a fun, fabric cover on a new planner and, like her mother, she aims to be chic at all times.  Why sit at your desk and look at leatherette when a bright and modern print is just a can of spray adhesive and a pair of pinking shears away?  Being the end of August, it reminded me of the good ole’ days when we would prepare for a new year of homeschooling by caressing our shiny new books and covering our binders and folders – a pleasant way to stave off the inevitable fact that anything, even if it’s interesting, takes on a certain dullness when the day-to-day routine really gains a foothold.

I had worked really hard the day before at deep-cleaning the carpets and had claimed this day as my own for rest and rejuvenation.  A craft project, followed by a mug (or two) of my fabulous Not Apologizin’ Hot Chocolate, sounded pretty much ideal.  (The recipe, by the way, can be found here.)

Smuffy, that love of my life, didn’t have it so easy.  One of his summer goals had been to pour a concrete pad under our porch steps, an area that had been nothing more than dirt ever since we’ve lived in this house.  That would’ve made this project overdue by…hmm…let me see…do I need a calculator? …oh yes, that’s right, thirty-six years.  Not that he’s a procrastinator – I’m always swift to admit that Smuffy fixes everything almost before it’s broken – but that in itself, my Dear Readers, is a story for another day.  Feel free to request in the comments, as a reminder to me, to tell the tale of how my furniture was nearly bolted to the walls.

Smuffy prepared the area and built forms in the evenings after work and on Saturday he poured the first part of the L-shaped pad.  Everything went smooth as silk, but the bigger portion remained undone.  He’s learned over the years that Sunday as a day of rest is a glorious and life-restoring gift.  Sometimes, however, a job requires more attention that he can give it in the hours he has after work, so there he was, on this fine afternoon, outside mixing concrete.

Our peaceful measuring and cutting was soon interrupted by the sound of feet rushing up the basement steps, through the hall and into the bathroom.  Nothing unusual – after all, sometimes you’ve really gotta go!  It was the YELP! that followed that pricked my ears.  Smuffy doesn’t yelp.  He always professes, no matter what the injury, that nothing hurts.  A mild stomach flu and he’s practically lost his will to live, but injuries never seem to faze him much.  He’s actually commented in the past that he could probably handle being an amputee with greater grace than if he were afflicted with ongoing nausea.  Hold that thought.

I stepped into the hallway to have a look.  There he was with his hands in the sink.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Get me some paper towels.”

“But what happened?”

“I need paper towels!”

I ran for the towels.

“What happened?” asked Pookie as I flew past.

“He wants paper towels.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know.”

Then came the stand-off.  I had to know and he had to, for whatever reason guys do so, act like it was no big deal.  After a good deal of snappy dialogue we arrived at –

“Is it bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Do we need to go to the ER?”

Round two of snappy dialogue occurred as I followed him down the basement steps.  Where is this man going?  He’s messing with concrete and blood is going everywhere.  I tell him to drop everything and let’s go to urgent care or the ER.

“The very least you need is probably stitches.  How bad do you think it is?”

“Do you want to see it?”

Florence Nightingale I am not, but at least I have a nurturing gene that enables me to take care of my own.  As soon as he began moving the wrapping away, my arms and legs physically ached and did their best to curl up and drop me to the floor.  I took my obligatory look.  My gaze didn’t linger long.  Logic tells me that if it is something beyond my range of skill, the person’s life is not in immediate danger, and skilled personnel are nearby, there is no point in looking!  The idea here is to tell what happened, not to give you nightmares, but if Stephen King ever runs out of ideas, I suppose he could write a book about a crazed lunatic who attacks people with a potato peeler.  You know that pointy thing on the end that really enables you to get those eyes out of that potato?  Well, inserting the potato into the gears of a concrete mixer would have a similar result, I suppose.  The end of the pinky finger was – never mind!  I promised not to give you nightmares!

“You have to go to the ER!”

“I have to finish this concrete.”

“You CAN’T finish this concrete!”

“Do you want this big, wet pile of concrete to dry like this and have to stare at it the rest of your life?”

“Ughhhhh!”

“Help me wrap it up and we’ll go as soon as I finish.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know.  When I’m finished!  We’re wasting time!”

With lots of gauze and tape and a latex glove stretched over the whole thing, he went out to pour the rest of the concrete while Pookie and I stared at one another, wondering how to stop the madness.  She was filled with frustration at knowing that her husband would run to our aid if she called him, but he was too far away to get there in time to do any good.  She busied herself by running in and out and holding one end of Smuffy’s leveling board when necessary.  I busied myself with glancing out the window and muttering under my breath, “Jesus, You know my wonderful man and You know when he’s being a dope!  You’re going to have to take care of this one.”  I made calls to the local hospital and two urgent cares to check on how our new insurance worked with this type of thing.  You don’t really get good answers to those questions on weekends.

Time marched on and we thought the man would never come in the house.  Each time we questioned him we got the same answer, “When I’m done!”  After a while, there was really nothing else to do but go about our business and wait it out.

Finally, I looked at Pookie, exclaiming, “I feel ridiculous!  I’m going to be telling people, ‘Smuffy mangled his hand in the concrete mixer!’ and then they’re going to say, ‘Oh my!  Then what happened?’ and I’m going to say, ‘Oh, we finished up a craft project and made hot chocolate!’  This is CRAZY!”

At one point we actually lost him.  Pookie couldn’t find him out by the concrete job and I couldn’t find him in the basement.  We found him, at last, in the back yard sitting in the swing – just chillin’.  That was when I should have gone back in the house and started calling mental hospitals.

Two hours after the accident, we pulled out of the driveway, but not before Smuffy had a concrete pad that looked perfect, had taken a bath and changed clothes, eaten some supper and rewrapped the gruesome digit, all the while saying he felt fine and that it didn’t hurt a bit.

This is when we had our third round of snappy dialogue, which concluded with me saying, “No, you will NOT drive, you BONEHEAD!  I’m driving!  GET IN THE CAR!

Pinky Emergency www.midweststoryteller.com

We pulled into urgent care first, which was a waste of time, as that doctor took one look, informed us that the finger was 7/8 amputated and we needed a hand surgeon.  We sped on over to the hospital and were very pleased with the experienced surgeon who brought his operating kit to the ER and, perching his glasses with their attached microscopes atop his nose, did a two-hour delicate surgery, reattaching Smuffy’s finger and each of the tiny nerves and sinews inside.  His experience and expertise led him to estimate that the precise location of the injury would miraculously enable the regrowth of the nail, which I would have said was impossible.  I had to admit that when I saw it after the surgery was complete, I thought it looked very good in comparison to the mangled mess I’d seen six hours earlier. 

Smuffy, of course, assisted with surgery any way he could and chatted away with the doctor the whole time about hobbies, vocations and grotesque injuries that belonged in the category of “Truth is Stranger than Fiction.”  I stayed in the room, sitting by my man with my chair strategically positioned to avoid the slightest glimpse of the action.

Despite his brave front, when it was all over I thought he looked as though he’d lost a bit of his polish.

Smuffy Survives www.midweststoryteller.com

Smuffy went back to work the next day, and it’s not a desk job.  “Yes, Lord, he’s being a dope again, and You’re going to have to take care of my sweetie.”  He took no pain killers, either prescription or over-the-counter, aside from what the doctor administered in order to perform surgery, because he said it didn’t hurt.

I followed up the whole incident by doing a Google search on “people who have their pain receptors turned off”.  Sometimes there’s no escaping it – you just have to shake your head at Smuffy and admit that something is wonky here.

Smuffy is endowed with swift and thorough healing and if you’ve been keeping up with my “Life With Smuffy” here on the blog, you know how much he needs it! 

Just last week, he carried a couple of water heaters down full flights of stairs by himself because, you know, somebody had to do it and just to refresh himself, came home with a new motor scooter. Ever since, I’ve heard him muttering about how all it needs is a little more power – as if all I needed were bigger hills to stand upon in order to phone an ambulance!

I think of Smuffy sometimes when Pookie and I sit down for our favorite movie, “The Sound of Music” and watch Maria and Captain von Trapp gaze into each other’s eyes and muse that somewhere in their youths or childhoods, they must have done something good – for, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have asked for a dynamic prayer life and by doing so, had it enhanced when I received the Gift of Smuffy.

Real adventure lovers will love joining Smuffy for life on the river here and here.  You go all the way back to the beginning of my Life With Smuffy with our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon.  Just for laughs, find out how Smuffy Takes the Cure.  He also restores classic cars and will teach you how A Studebaker in the Hand is NOT Worth Two in the Bush.

Comments?  I’d love to hear from you.  Just scroll back up and click on “Leave a Comment” under the title of this post.  On a mobile device, this may appear all the way to the bottom of the post.

“Life with Smuffy (Episode 4): That Sinking Feeling Returns” (or, “Shoeless, Clueless and as Wet as it Gets”)

I hope you’ve had a chance, after Smuffy’s last adventure, to lie down with a cold compress and talk over your traumatic experience with your best friend or therapist, because our cliffhanger resumes today and we’ll soon find out what an apt term that is.

We last had a rear view as Smuffy rolled out of the driveway on his way to meet up with Steve. Yes, good ‘ol Steve – you can count on him once every twenty years or so to be on hand when Smuffy really does things up big.

First Mate Steve www.midweststoryteller.com

This installment is the last half of what is known as a “two-parter”, so if you’ve not gone along with Smuffy in “Life with Smuffy (Episode 3): “That Sinking Feeling” (or, “The Wreck of ‘97”), then you’d better fix yourself a cup of tea, click here and do a bit of catching up because we’ve reached the part where things are about to go overboard.

In Episode 3, we learned that Smuffy (aka Captain Super Wonder Water Man) has no boundaries when it comes to water. It takes him back to his carefree childhood where fun overrides any possibility of getting a boo-boo.

Born Fearless www.midweststoryteller.com

Though I’d learned to endure, his wild river adventures were enough reduce me, as the saying goes, to a mere shadow of my former self.

I’d thought perhaps that the Wreck of ’97 had been just the thing Smuffy needed to cure him of his illusions of invincibility. After all, he’d come within a hair’s breadth of killing his old college buddy, Steve, filled his classic wooden boat full of holes, thrown his boat motor overboard, journeyed down three or four rivers in the dark with no steering and had spent a week telling me he never wanted to be in a boat again as long as he lived.

Now, however, I stood at my back door watching my lunatic husband return to the scene of the crime.

It seemed all he’d needed was a little rest to recharge his super powers. He become convinced – no, obsessed – with the notion that he knew the exact spot where the wreck happened. I didn’t doubt it. You’d think it would be seared upon his little gray cells. With that vivid mental image, he also claimed to know the exact spot where his precious 1962 Wizard 7.5 horsepower boat motor lay at the bottom of the river. This led him to believe that he could not only recover the motor but disassemble it, dry it out and have it running again in no time.

Having vowed to never again be the wife who paced the floor in the wee hours wondering if she still had a husband, I’d issued every threat I could think of should Smuffy not return by dark. I promised myself to follow through on the one I thought would prove I meant business. At thirty minutes past sunset, I’d send the sheriff after him. I knew Smuffy well enough to know that the weekly report in our local small town paper, listing him amongst all the other characters in the county who’d shared an encounter with the law, would be an embarrassment to him. If this last ditch effort didn’t cure him, I’d have to throw a mattress out on the deck and change the locks.

Captain Super Wonder Water Man, believing that paddles are for mere mortals, had his canoe licensed and outfitted with the biggest motor he could without causing it to sink or fly.

Smuffy's Canoe www.midweststoryteller.com

His plan began with having Steve drive him all the way to the river access just above where “X” marked the spot. Steve, always such a help, would then drop Smuffy and the canoe into the river and come back home. Captain Super Wonder Water Man would then make his way downstream, dive for the motor, hoist it into the canoe and motor down one scenic river after another until he made it back to the river access close to home where his truck would be waiting. He’d assured me that his expert observances of the Missouri River, just a few blocks from our house, had indicated lower water levels. The motor shouldn’t be too far underwater.

It all sounded so simple to hear Smuffy describe it.

I moaned as Smuffy’s rear bumper disappeared down the street and went back into the house to do what I usually did when he’d lost his marbles. I cleaned. I cooked. I spent quality time with my young daughter. I prayed. I thought a few murderous thoughts and prayed some more.

After an hour’s drive north, Smuffy and Steve arrived at the ramp around two o’clock that afternoon. Though Steve offered to drive downstream and wait, Smuffy brushed off this notion as over-cautious and told him to head on home.

Steve did as instructed, probably due to the fact that he’d been knocked unconscious in the wreck two weeks before, was still giddy at finding himself alive and not in the river with Smuffy and lacked the wherewithal to call Smuffy an idiot right there on the spot.

A few minutes after he’d started home, Steve came to his senses. When he came to a bridge over the river, he pulled over and waited for Smuffy to pass beneath, knowing he’d have to allow him a little time to reach the motor and wrestle it into the canoe.

Sometime between three and four o’clock, my phone rang. Steve’s voice, calm and steady as ever, came on the line. I sighed with relief, glad to have any update on Mission: Insanity. I felt a numb sense of disbelief as he spoke, accompanied by a little voice that seemed to be asking what else I might have expected.

After telling me that he’d seen Smuffy heading downriver before driving away, Steve had waited at the bridge. In fact, he’d already waited over an hour before finding a phone and calling me. He’d kept a sharp eye out and seemed certain that neither man nor canoe had passed beneath him unnoticed. He asked me what I wanted him to do.

Do? The word perplexed me. What could he do? All my instincts screamed at me to tell Steve to go after Smuffy and not come home without him. All my logic counseled me as to the futility of it all. Steve had no boat, no life jacket and no other means of getting someone out of the river. As much as I hated the thought of Smuffy, out there all alone without even having someone nearby, just in case, I knew Steve couldn’t just keep sitting there. I told him to come on home.

Smuffy had been right about one thing – the water levels had dropped. After the rivers’ dramatic drop on the day of the wreck, they had continued to drop ever since. While he’d been aware of this and glad that it might help him spot his boat motor with ease and haul it up without a great deal of effort, he hadn’t been prepared for what awaited him around the first bend in the river.

The Missouri’s tributaries had emptied out. Two weeks before, they’d run high, wide and swift. After Steve drove away, Smuffy spent only a few moments motoring through this now shallow stream, gazing in awe above his head at the water line left by the previous flooding. Then, he hit gravel. The once rushing river that had allowed his wooden runabout to cruise along at full speed no longer held enough water to float a canoe.

Raising the motor, he got out and dragged the canoe until he reached a deeper stretch of water. Hopping back in, he started the motor and cruised on ahead. Then, he hit gravel. Another drag brought him to deeper water again and Smuffy began a cycle that would stretch over the hours and miles. He began to wish he’d told Steve to wait.

Smuffy’s map and his memory led him to the “X” and his prize lay in the exact spot he’d dropped it. The only problem seemed to be that the boat motor no longer lay at the bottom of the river. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he studied it as it lay fifteen feet above his head, straight up the riverbank, a clear indication of just how flooded the river had been on the day of the wreck.

Not one to let a slight hitch abort the mission, Smuffy summoned his superpowers for feats on dry land and, grabbing onto dead limbs and roots, scaled the heights and reached the motor. After an exciting descent with it clutched to his bosom, he deposited it into his canoe and shoved off. Then, he hit gravel.

The extra weight of the additional motor made hitting bottom all the easier and it soon became apparent that this would be the theme that shaped the day. Smuffy traveled on, alternating between dragging the canoe over the gravel riverbed and hopping in for brief stretches of deeper water.

The miles and the hours crept along and Smuffy decided he’d better make contact with me. His attempts to radio the local amateur radio club tower with a distress call failed, just as they had two weeks earlier. He hadn’t really expected to get through, as he now found himself walled in by the high banks, cutting off the reception even more.

After dragging the canoe over another stretch of gravel, Smuffy stopped to study his map, sighing as he faced the fact that when sunset approached, he’d be nowhere near home. In fact, he’d be nowhere near the Missouri River. There seemed to be no choice but to push (or pull) on, so he grabbed the canoe and heaved. It moved a few feet begrudgingly and as he stepped forward to give another tug, Smuffy slipped off the edge of the world.

He bobbed to the surface, thankful for his life vest, for he had no idea how deep the pool had been. Perhaps I’ve neglected to mention that Captain Super Wonder Water Man can’t swim. Pulling the canoe into the deep water, Smuffy climed back in, hoping he’d at last reached deeper waters that would allow him to start up the motor and keep on going.

Alas, it was not to be. The river now toyed with Smuffy, and as he had no other choice, he alternated between dragging the canoe over the gravel river bottom and stepping off into unknown depths. Even Captain Super Wonder Water Man shows a certain degree of peevishness after a few hours of that sort of thing.

Smuffy admits to one weakness – he needs his glasses. Keeping them dry and attached to his face soon became a problem, for no sooner than he accomplished this, he’d plunge without warning into the depths again, clutching at them. Since he hadn’t a dry fiber left in any of this clothing, he began drying them with the only thing that hadn’t become water-logged – his map.

As darkness fell, the sudden impact of stepping off into the wet unknown began to take on even more of what is known as the surprise element. Smuffy removed the flashlight from his dry-box and as he studied the limp, soggy map, he scanned the banks and the blackened sky for some landmark that might give him a clue as to his location.

On he went, with the map growing more lifeless with each use as a towel and the flashlight growing dimmer by the minute. Smuffy counted each bridge as he passed beneath, hoping that the map would hold together long enough to show him one that might lead him to a town within walking distance.

By now, Smuffy knew I’d be more than just a little worried. He stopped at intervals to crawl through the weeds, roots and mud, scaling the riverbanks in hopes that, once on high ground, he’d get a signal and make a distress call. No matter how many times he dangled from the edge of the bank, gripping the vegetation in one hand and the radio device in the other, he never got one.

Around ten-thirty that night, the faint outline of another bridge came into view. If Smuffy’s counting had been accurate, this road would lead him into nearby Keytesville, where he might find a telephone. He tied up the canoe and began the steep climb up the mud bank. Nearing the top, a soft sucking sound and a light rustling through the underbrush informed him that one of his shoes had disappeared into the blackness. Undaunted, he crawled onto the road and, hampered a little by a slight limp and glursh-ing with every other step, headed toward what he hoped would be civilization.

After half an hour or so, a dim flicker appeared in the distance and Smuffy made his way toward what proved to be a farmhouse. He began to be concerned that some of his earlier luster had faded to the point where its residents might shy away when he knocked at their door. Reaching up, he ran his mud-caked hands through his hair and gave his wet clothes a futile brush-over. He hoped the flashlight, so dim now that he’d barely been able to identify the bridge on the map, might ease the shock. He knocked on the door and, holding the flashlight over his head, turned it on.

The man who opened the door beheld the vision in round-eyed silence.

“I’ve had some trouble,” Smuffy explained. “Could I use your phone to call for help?”

After taking a few seconds to survey Smuffy from muddy face to missing shoe, the man spoke.

“Wait right here.”

Soon the door re-opened and the man shoved a cordless phone into Smuffy’s hand before retreating again, indicating that he was both a man of compassion and intelligence.

One would assume that, at this juncture, Smuffy called me. He didn’t. He called Steve. Perhaps he weighed his options and rather than adding a round of hysterics to an already trying day, he’d be better off making immediate contact with his rescuer.

When Steve called around eleven-thirty to tell me that Smuffy was alive, relief flooded over me, along with the astonishment that he was still miles away, near Keytesville. Steve assured me that he’d leave immediately and have him home in a few more hours.

The fact that I hadn’t called the sheriff remains a mystery. I can only say that I’d spent the hours since Steve had first called to say he’d lost contact with Smuffy in a numb fog. Steve’s wife, Darlene, had called from time to time for an update, to console me and to marvel at why anyone in their right mind would do the things Smuffy does. I kept up a brave face for my daughter in between sudden fits of sheer panic. These alternated with a strange sense of peace that kept whispering in my spirit, Give him time…Give him time…

I look back now and consider that I must have slipped into some form of shock. Not calling the sheriff had to be just about the dumbest thing I ever did.

Once Smuffy had given Steve directions to the bridge and given the phone back to the poor frightened souls inside the farmhouse, he headed back down the road to his canoe. That’s when the thunderstorm hit.

The thunder, lightning and rain had reached fever pitch as Smuffy returned to his canoe. He pulled it under the bridge, but opted against sitting in the metal canoe just in case God felt that the day’s events hadn’t proven sufficient at getting His message across.

I can’t recall much about the scene that unfolded when Smuffy rolled in at two-thirty the next morning. It went past in a blur of tears, exhaustion, gratitude and “never agains”.  I do remember the poison ivy that followed.  All Smuffy’s attempts to send distress signals, wrestle the canoe down the bank and climb out of the river to reach a phone had sent him crawling through endless patches of the stuff, multiplying the dandy rash he’d gotten after the day of the boat wreck.  He spent the next couple of weeks slathered in calamine, mummified in gauze and oozing like a jelly-filled doughnut.

Poor Darlene – the wreck and its aftermath taxed her to her limits and she hasn’t been in a boat with Smuffy since. All she and Steve ever got out of the whole deal were two lovely hand-crafted Christmas tree ornaments that year made from fragments of the boat’s windshield that remind them, “I Survived the Wreck of ‘97”.

For once in his life, Smuffy had had his fill of water for a while. Thankfully, he had a boat to repair and a motor to dry out, so it would be a while before he could embark on his favorite pastime. Meanwhile he returned to one of his other passions and dragged out his model airplanes. I felt a sense of relief at seeing him engaged in something a little tamer.

Smuffy in Flight www.midweststoryteller.com

I must have forgotten that when it comes to Smuffy, even a game of pick-up sticks can turn ugly.

Smuffy made it back from flying his planes in one piece, but each time he returned, I made a point to count his fingers and toes, remembering a few years back to a peaceful Saturday that took an abrupt turn when Smuffy returned early.

Entering through the basement, he dashed up the steps and into the bathroom. I didn’t give it much thought other than to assume that he’d found himself in sudden need of a little privacy. Soon, however, he called out a strange instruction.

“Bring me a roll of paper towels!”

“Paper towels?” I asked, reaching for the roll.

“Paper towels! And hurry!”

“Here they are,” I answered as I approached the closed door.

It opened a few inches and the towels disappeared inside before the door clicked shut again.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing. Get me a roll of black electrical tape.”

“Black electrical… What are you doing?”

“Just get it!”

I ran to the basement for the tape, resolving that I would have to assert my personality to keep some unpleasant form of male nonsense from getting out of control. I brought the tape back to the door and, like the towels, it whizzed out of my fingers and the door shut again.

I didn’t have to be Perry Mason to conclude that the witness displayed evasiveness. I demanded to be told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Smuffy finally admitted to having hurt his hand.

“How? And how bad?” I asked, placing my ear to the door.

“I stuck it in the airplane propeller.”

What? Let me see.”

Love is the only explanation for my utterance of those awful words. Seeing was the last thing I wanted. I cringe when someone picks at the sticky tab of their band-aid. I don’t look at bloody wounds unless one of my loved ones needs me and no one else is there to take over the situation. Then, some inexplicable strength, along with rapid heart rate and a certain degree of clamminess, comes over me.

After more resistance on Smuffy’s part and more insistence on mine, he let me in. I took a deep breath and held it as he pulled away the massive wad of paper towels.

My knees buckled. I turned my head away. This was beyond anything I could handle. I stepped back into the hall.

“You need to go to the emergency room.”

“It’ll be all right. I just need to get it to stop bleeding and get it bandaged up.”

“It’s not going to stop bleeding. You need stitches – a lot of stitches.”

“I don’t need the hospital!”

The conversation continued along these lines until I walked away, muttering a prayer that I might say something that would get through to Smuffy. I returned to the bloody scene. I’d seen those fingers and they’d been filleted from the bones.

“What are you going to do if you do this yourself and it doesn’t heal up right and you can’t use your hand and then you can’t work?”

Smuffy stood silent. So did I, determined to let my words soak in. After a few moments of pondering and perhaps weakened by additional blood loss, Smuffy caved.

“Let’s go to the emergency room.”

Another difference of opinion sprang up when we got to the car and, yes, Smuffy drove.

They wouldn’t let me in the room when they started working on Smuffy. He, of course, displayed a keen interest in the whole procedure. He took note that the doctor discarded certain bits and kept others. He admitted to getting bored in his efforts to count stitches and giving up once the number passed fifty.

I sat in the waiting room, wondering if he might be better off in the river – until I remembered that boats had propellers, too.

We took poor Smuffy home and did our best to nurse him back to health.  Again, he made it difficult for us to cozy up to him and dole out the sympathy.  He’d been flying his planes in another area riddled with – uh-huh – poison ivy!

He made pathetic sight, our little invalid, propped in his chair – stitched, wrapped and trying not to scratch with the only hand he had available. Since these situations offer the opportunity to either laugh or cry – we laughed. We laughed a lot!

Poor Smuffy www.midweststoryteller.com

That’s my Smuffy. Thankfully, he has full use of his hand and no scarring. He’s gone on to more adventures and you’ll find them here at Midwest Storyteller.

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That reminds me – I don’t think I ever told you about the Big Boat Wreck of ’78. Yep – don’t let that sweet, innocent face fool you – good ‘ol Steve was around for that one, too!.

Steve Back in the Day www.midweststoryteller.com

You might want to start at the beginning of my Life With Smuffy and read about our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon. For sheer entertainment, you’ll want to see how Smuffy Takes the Cure.

Comments? I’d love to hear from you. Just scroll back up and click on “Leave a Comment” under the title of this post. On a mobile device, this may appear all the way to the bottom of the post.

Life With Smuffy: (Episode 2) “Smuffy Takes the Cure” (or, “Think You’re Invincible?…Don’t Bet on It!”)

It’s doubtful that anyone, upon entering into a lifelong commitment, realizes what they’re getting themselves into. Marriage certainly remains the number one eye opener of all time.

Lacking this foreknowledge, and madly in love, I married Smuffy and discovered that I’d entered a contest. No – more like a tournament.

I’d come from a large farm family where the girls outnumbered the boys 6 to 1.  We had our issues – that’s for sure – but I don’t remember an overly competitive spirit amongst the siblings. It may have been there, but I didn’t pick up on it.

That thing America thrives on – competition – sped right past me and I didn’t even care. I hated team sports and shrugged off people who announced that they were going to out-do me academically. My attitude was pretty much, “Knock yourself out, Honey!”

For Smuffy, raised in a household full of boys, life had been one grand rivalry after another as each tried to prove whatever it is they were trying to prove. See, I still haven’t figured it out! But, boys will be boys, I suppose.

Boys Will Be Boys www.midweststoryteller.com

I shrank from participating, but Smuffy thought all I needed was a little coaxing. And, with those puppy-dog brown eyes of his, he lured me into all sorts of silly wagers – each one a contest, championship, best two out of three, winner take all.

Though it seemed irrelevant to me which one of us could spit over a log or hit a tree branch with a rock with greater accuracy, Smuffy thrived on it. I preferred, as one of my favorite P. G. Wodehouse characters once put it, “to exist beautifully”, preferably with a good book, cup of hot chocolate and a cat in my lap. I love kitties. I adored Smuffy, and I had to admit that, though it wasn’t my cup of tea, Smuffy was cute when lost in one of his fits of boyish playfulness.

Uninterested in monetary wagers, Smuffy preferred to invent stunts for the losers to perform. He liked to drag others into the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. Shortly after we married, Smuffy made a bet in a pitch game we were playing with another couple. Intoxicated with the smell of victory, Smuffy strutted his stuff, promising that he and his surprised partner would, should the girls rebound from their massive losses and win, remove their shoes and socks, roll their pants up past their knees and run all the way around the house in the snow.

The temperature – in the teens. The house – large. The snow – deep.

By this time, Smuffy’s over-confidence had made me a trifle peeved. Since the girls didn’t have to reciprocate if they lost, I gave him “the look”, which, by the way, he didn’t recognize, and said, “You’re on!”

After we won, I felt a little sorry for Smuffy’s partner. Recovering from a nasty virus of some sort, he looked as though he wanted to grab Smuffy by the neck and throttle his bright idea right out of him.

What Goes Around Comes Around www.midweststoryteller.com

I stood outside, monitoring their progress as they mushed around the house with a flashlight. Surely this would cure him!

Not a chance! No matter what the activity, Smuffy could think of a way to turn it into a contest. We couldn’t just play Monopoly. We played Killer Monopoly. I came to the point where I took amusement by letting other players sit rent free on my properties “just because they were my friends”. Then, I’d charge him full price for being “not nice”.

Smuffy did, at times, end up losing. He grew adept at slithering out of the consequences of his outrageous bets by careful wording. He always seemed to escape through some tiny loophole or technicality when I folded my arms and demanded payment.

Not caring whether I won or lost, I had relaxation on my side when Smuffy lured me into competition. It came in handy.

One day, he came home with a bow and arrows. He spent the whole weekend practicing with his new toy, perfecting his aim and technique. Sure enough, when I ventured outside, Smuffy wanted me to try it, betting, of course, that I couldn’t hit a rotten watermelon sitting at the far edge of our garden. He showed me how to hold the thing and draw back the bow. I nailed the watermelon with a satisfying foomph. Two more bets and two foomphs later, Smuffy dismissed me, saying he suffered from a tired arm. The following weekend, we acted out a similar scenario. The bow and arrows disappeared after that.

I began to think my sweetie needed help. An intervention! Surely there must be a cure!

Call 1-800-BETCURE www.midweststoryteller.com

One winter, a stray cat arrived. I admit to being a cat magnet. I love them and they love me. I think, like hobos, they must mark my house, labeling me as a soft touch. It takes all the fortitude at my disposal to avoid petting them and feeding them. I know what will happen if I do. I am firm. I am resolved – 99.9% of the time.

We called this cat Old Yeller. He was yellow. He was old, at least in experience. With a shaggy and unkempt coat, he moved his massive bulk along with fearsome purpose, as though he saw all and heard all with the one eye that hadn’t been scratched out and the one ear that hadn’t been bitten off. We never took pictures of Old Yeller. Why would you? He looked something like this –

Old Yeller Cat www.midweststoryteller.com

Smuffy preferred to chuck rocks at Old Yeller in hopes of running him off. I did my best to ignore him. Cat lover or not, he just didn’t fall into the category of “snuggly” as far as I was concerned. He looked like he’d seen a thing or two and had mangled both of them. He hung around through cold weather and into spring.

One weekend, as the weather warmed and Smuffy tackled his first outdoor project, Old Yeller joined him in the back yard. Positioning himself with an air of authority on the picnic table, he snarled and hissed at Smuffy each time he moved anywhere near him. One. Tough. Cat.

Later in the afternoon, I went out for a little sunshine. Smuffy greeted me, gesturing toward Old Yeller.

I know you’re always saying how much cats like you, but I’ll bet this is one cat that wouldn’t let you pet him. That’s about the meanest cat I’ve ever come across.”

Oh, I don’t know,” I shrugged with nonchalance. “He might not be so mean to someone he really liked.”

Smuffy’s eyebrows shot up. “You gotta be kidding me! You seriously think you can pet that cat?” He waved an arm toward Old Yeller, who took it as an act of war and responded with hair-raising yowls of feline profanity. “I’ll bet you can’t!”

I paused, basking in a wave of inspiration. Had Old Yeller come along as Smuffy’s intervention?

I maintained my casual attitude. “Oh, I don’t know…I’ll bet I could. Cats really do like me, you know. What’ll you bet me?”

Smuffy named off a couple of things and I wrinkled my nose at him, poo-pooing them as penny ante. If he wanted me to endanger myself by even approaching Old Yeller, he would have to come up with something better.

I watched as my willingness, combined with indifference, sparked Smuffy’s competitive fires. He wanted to win. He had to win.

That cat is wild! I don’t think anybody’s ever petted him. If you can pet that cat, I’ll…I’ll…”

You’ll what? Remember, kitties like me,” I smiled.

I had him hooked. I waited. And, yes, Smuffy went over the edge.

If you can walk up to that cat and get him to let you pet him, I will personally, right now, walk over to the edge of this yard, face the neighbors, pull my pants down around my ankles and sing, ‘The Star-spangled Banner’ for all to hear!”

Promise to sing nice and loud?”

Nice and loud.”

What about your underpants?”

Huh?”

It’s really not fair if you don’t pull down your underpants.”

Smuffy hesitated. On a scale of 1-10, Smuffy’s modesty quotient is somewhere around 42. He’d already wagered a good deal of his decency. Soon, I saw that my show of confidence had only stoked his own.

Okay. My underpants, too.”

No cheating? No technicalities?”

No cheating.”

If you forget the words to the song, I’ll help you along.”

Arms folded across his chest, Smuffy watched me approach Old Yeller, warning me all the way that I’d better be careful, lest I draw back a stub.

I chose the cooing method. Slowly advancing, I called Old Yeller every precious pet name that came to mind. After a gentle stroke on the back of his head, I gave his spine a tickle before massaging his jowls. He purred in approval.

Soon, Old Yeller decided he’d had enough for a first encounter and jumped off the picnic table.

I smiled at Smuffy. “Your turn.”

How did you do that?”

Like I’ve always told you – kitties like me.”

Smuffy pled for mercy, exhausting every excuse at his disposal before going to the south edge of the lawn and getting down to business. I remained firm. Strong. Determined. It felt good – this new sense of power.

I had only one regret. Smuffy happened to be wearing the longest-tailed shirt he owned. I thought it took the polish off the performance and I said so. Again, technicalities prevailed as he informed me that raising the shirt had, at no time, come into discussion when the bet went down.

My little technicality hadn’t come into discussion either. I saved it till after we’d gotten past “the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Very nice,” I said, releasing my pent-up giggles. “From now on, I’m only going to agree to a bet if the stakes are high and I know I’m going to win. Remember, you could end up singing this same song on the front steps of the theater on Main Street – without the shirt!”

Waggling a cautionary finger at him, I turned and started for the house.

It was only a fluke,” he called after me. “I don’t know why that cat let you pet him, but I’ll bet you couldn’t do it again!”

Oh, it’s no fluke,” I called back, turning to savor the moment. “And I wouldn’t bet on it again if I were you. I’ve been feeding that cat hot dogs… for… the… last… three… days!

Random Acts of Kindness www.midweststoryteller.com

Now, I can’t keep track of Smuffy every minute, you know. He may get into an occasional competitive wager with someone else now and again, but somehow he’s lost the urge to drag me into it.

Smuffy has taken the cure! Whether or not he falls off the wagon remains to be seen. If it happens, I’ll put down my hot chocolate, shove in a bookmark and be there to chronicle the event.

Stay tuned…

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