… on a sheepish husband and blind fred


Blind And Yet So Debonaire…

Last night, the Nearly Perfect Husband came huffing and puffing into the Living Room.

He was snow-covered and holding a shovel in his hand.

I am rather proud of myself, because I did not leap up – screaming – and run away, a la Macauley Culkin in Home Alone when he sees the old guy with the shovel and thinks he’s a murderer.

Instead, I asked the Nearly Perfect Husband what he was doing.

His response: “I hate when you are right.”


It seems that, the other day, I made the point to talk with him and Self-Proclaimed Perfect Boy Gabe about keeping an eye on Blind Fred because what if he goes out and walks right off the raised patio (that some people call a ‘terrace’ but I think that sounds snotty)?

Because it is extra snowy, and all the bushes are covered up so it is just one giant white, raised flying saucer of a death trap right now if you ask me.

And, in addition, it sits about five feet off the ground in some places, and a good 7 or so feet off the ground in others.

Sure, there’s something called a knee wall on part of the patio, and I think it is called that because, if you ran into it, it would take you out at the knees, before you went hurling into the yard.


The whole thing is unsafe.

But we have made it as safe as possible because it has lots of planting areas around it that offer visual cues and stop you before you get too close to the edge.

Visual cues.

But, of course, Blind Fred is… you know… blind.

And now everything is covered in snow – like, four feet of it.

So I got all ‘yeah, yeah’d’ by both my husband and son, and they would let Blind Fred out without watching him, and he would make his way tentatively down the stairs to the patio, where he would do his business on the snow-covered bushes and then return to the house. And all was right with the world according to menfolk and Blind Fred.

Until last night.

When JoHn let him out, he went down the stairs, and walked right off the patio.

The crime scene investigation team didn’t even find a single skid mark.

The dang dawg just walked right off the edge.

So when JoHn called the dogs back in, and The ShepHerds came back, but Fred did not, JoHn slid on his boots and went to find Fred.

And he did.

Turns out Blind Fred walked right off the edge of the patio and landed in a ‘poof’ right into some soft snow. And then, because he hit snow in all directions, he turned round and round in circles, creating a lovely nest for himself.  Then he just hung out and waited to be rescued.

But JoHn could not get to him, or get him out, without a shovel.

So when they got into the house, JoHn was all “You were right.” and Blind Fred was all, well, looking like someone glued chunks of styrofoam to every inch of his round yellow body.

But both seemed no worse for the wear, which was good.

And me?

I added yet one more mental chalk mark to the multitudes that exist in my brain’s archives.

I point out ‘The Thing’ that might happen to my Nearly Perfect Husband and any combination of local cherubs.

They nod, but they don’t listen.

‘The Thing’ happens.

They slink back in, in a sort of husband/cherub walk of shame.

Sometimes they acknowledge my brilliance, and sometimes my prescient sensibilities.

Most times not.

But I know.

Oh I know.

I have joined the decades and centuries and millenniums of mothers.

Oh ya, I’m gonna say it.


who know best.

Thanks for readin’.

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