I have a new man in my life, an exciting event in my
solitary existence, one that has been manless since my divorce when, after 36
years, my husband put me out to pasture and wandered off to greener ones.
Surprisingly, I’ve found that being out to pasture—despite the
unappealing connotations of worn-out old mares, crotchety nags, and mangy plugs—has
its upside. In fact, in my pasture, I’ve discovered tasty wildflowers that
tickle my imagination, shady nooks of towering trees that relax and refresh me,
and even a lovely hillside for sunning on a cloudless day. Actually, being put
out to pasture has perked me up, turned me into a filly that discovered she has
a lot of trot left. However, while many a handsome stud has passed by, and
despite my lively interest, none has ever given me a second glance or even a
friendly snort. None that is, until Gus.
It was a family member who suggested that I’d like Gus
because he was not only intelligent, but good-looking, well-groomed, funny, and
likable. To entice me further, my relative noted that Gus was several years
younger than I and I’d have a chance to be a cougar!
Me, a cougar! My
fantasies went wild. I’d let my hair grow. I’d get hair extensions like J Lo
and the Kardashians, so I could fling around masses of wild sexy tresses. I’d
lose ten pounds and get a Spanx, that body girdle that pushes up your boobs,
sucks in your stomach, and flattens your fanny. I’d re-read that book about sex,
you know, the Cosa Nostra or the Karma Scuba, whatever it’s called. I was cougar primed, more than ready for Gus.
I wasn’t disappointed. Gus has lovely green eyes, rich brown
hair, a muscular physique, and long legs. He is all that he was promised to be
with one minor exception. Gus is a
puppy, a three-month-old Vizshla, a Hungarian hunting dog that my son bought,
somehow forgetting that he had a job and couldn’t take care of Gus. But good
son that he is, he remembered his poor old manless mom, all alone out there in
that pasture, and Gus metamorphosed from “his” dog to “our” dog. Gus now lives
with me during the week.
Gus may not be exactly what I was hoping for, but he has his
good points. When we watch television, Gus snuggles up on the couch and tickles
my neck with little love kisses. He never wants to be away from me. He whines
if I leave the room or if I sit on the couch, unless he can sit beside me. He
comes to the bathroom with me, mesmerized while I shower, fix my hair, and
dress. Sometimes as Gus licks my arm and rubs against me, I feel like he wants
to crawl under my skin, to get that close to me. No man has ever loved me this
much. If I had a pouch like a kangaroo, Gus would be in paradise.
Gus also has some qualities that only a woman can appreciate. He doesn’t leave the toilet seat up. He
doesn’t leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t hang around the
garage operating noisy power tools. He eats whatever I put in front of him with
gusto. He doesn’t burp at the table and he never, never asks me to pull his
finger, lets one loose (fart sound), and laughs like crazy. Best of all, he
lets me monopolize the remote control. The
more I think about it, Gus may actually be the perfect man.
