Does this ever pop into your head while you are counting sheep?
I know.
Me too.
Why has there never been a Castaway sequel?
How come there was not a Wilson rescue effort?
Is it just because he was nothing more than a volleyball?
That's bull shit.
That guy was Tom Hank's one and only best friend, for four long years on that deserted island. He stuck by his side through the good and the bad. And, all the yelling.
Just in case you forgot already, not long ago, it was Superbowl Sunday.
I can only speak for Wisconsin, but it is a state law here, that you must party for the big event, even if Aaron Rogers is not the quarter back.
And, Millie and Sven are law abiding citizens.
I said to Sven' "Let's, you, make seafood gumbo."
And my sweet Sven spent all day in the kitchen.
I did my part too.
I walked in the door with good beer and a squeaky football, for the dog.
I expected Hunter to extract the squeaker immediately, with his pearly whites.
I pulled out the stop watch from the drawer, so that I could get a precise time on how long it would take him to rip out the heart and soul and then tear the rest of it into tiny, little, pieces and spit them out.
Based on other similar situations, my guesstimate was about 1.5 seconds.
And, I was really looking forward to spending that quality time with Sven.
I tossed Hunter the football and pushed the button, simultaneously.
And then I planted one on my honey.
In case you have never met Hunter, I should probably introduce you to him.
He has lots of opinions.
And everything he has to say, is ten decibels louder than what is recommended by the federal government to be safe.
"That dog is louder than a jet engine," as Sven says.
He starts with these episodes first thing in the morning, when he bolts out the door.
I can hear the echo of Hunter waking up all the furry creatures out there, from the upstairs shower with my head under water.
I was not present, but I can assure you that he came out of his mother's womb with his mouth open. And, with all the feedings and fighting between all the pups, she must have forgotten to mention anything about using inside voices.
"You can't teach an old dog new tricks."
It is true. I have been trying to teach Hunter how to whisper since I met him.
Sven and I used to kiss.
They say that thirty years of marriage will make a spark, flicker.
I say, maybe.
I say, maybe it's the fear of being caught with your lips locked, by your dog.
You see, if Hunter detects any kissing going on that he is not involved in, he bitches about it.
I don't want to give you the wrong impression.
He is very sweet. Super duper funny. And, extremely courteous.
And, he isn't always barking.
He does nap.
But not enough.
He is quiet when we cook. He doesn't bark while he is chewing. He invites you to play tug of war every day and only barks when he loses. He stops all the noise making during a massage. And, you can hear a pin drop when he has his face stuck in the ground.
But otherwise, he is barking.
This is where my story gets weird.
Remember that football that I tossed and how I hit the button on the timer simultaneously?
Well, that timer is still ticking.
Sven and I could do the mumbo jumbo right in front of Hunter right now, if we wanted to. And he wouldn't even notice.
As soon as he caught that football, his eyes glazed over and his personality did a one-eighty.
He was kind to the ball.
He was gentle with the ball.
He was somebody else's dog.
Turns out that ball is his long lost soul mate.
It is almost two weeks out and they are inseparable.
Perhaps he needs to see a psychologist.
No.
No need to spend a lot of money for some dog shrink to say, "Well ma'am, your dog is crazy."
We already know that.
I am not sure how familiar you are with canines, but do you know how Hunter carries things?
In his mouth.
So, since Superbowl Sunday, that noisy trap of that sweet puppy, has been stuffed, with that football.
Hunter's opinions have been muffled.
Just a bunch of squeaking going on.
Blissful, blissful, squeaking.
And the more I look at that ball of his, the more I think that ball of his, looks like Wilson.
He must have been picked up at sea.
What do you mean he doesn't look like Wilson?
Wilson has been drifting under the hot sun and the scary black nights for fifteen, fucking, years.
He has been tossed around in storms and dodging sharks and jellyfish.
The poor guy couldn't even flag down a passing ship.
But then, one night, a cruiser was dumping out their shit into the ocean right on top of him.
One of the mates yelled, "Hey, there is something out there."
A spotlight shone upon Wilson, blinding his eyes.
They tossed him a rope.
No good.
They scooped him up with a fish net.
And then, once they realized that he was nothing more than a shriveled up volley ball with a fifteen year old sunburn, they dried him off, shrink wrapped him up and shipped him off to the Lodi Piggly Wiggly.
And that is where I found him, hanging there on a hook.
For two bucks.
Seriously, take a closer look.
