Maid Redundant

The Bard and a couple of his pals...

                "It all turned to goop when I tried to fold in the lemon zest, " Keith sighed when I asked what happened to dessert . 

                 If the  axe-slinging teenager who grew  up to be my husband had known he would  one day be held responsible for the welfare of such mundane items as  yellow pudding cake, he'd have strangled himself with his own guitar strings and called it a mercy killing. 

                Keith  was among the walking wounded who lost their jobs  during  last October's economic  shenanigans.  Americans  say "layed off" but  I prefer the delightfully caustic  British term "made redundant," which calls a  spade a spade  and informs you that you have essentially  become  useless.   When  my associate veterinarian departed  in  December,  I found myself working longer  hours  while Keith  was  working precisely  none,  so  cooking , housekeeping and other  maid-of- all- work  chores fell to him by default.  He also  became  the stay-at-home Dad  for our furry foster children:  the blind Jack Russells,  amputee tabbies,   belligerent  dachshunds  and other assorted detritus  of the pet world that inevitably  accumulates  on a veterinarian's doorstep.    

                Laundry sorting and litter box scooping can  present  some  serious challenges to  an individual who is still hoping  his dirty socks  will leap  into the washing machine under their own power.   The man can bust  a  riff that  might  make Hendrix sit up in his grave,   and can  wrestle  stubborn  computer  problems  into submission without breaking a sweat , but can't remember the following order of operations:   "dump sink strainer gunk  before taking out  trash."

                To his credit,  he has  demonstrated an  endless supply of patience in putting up with a wife who comes home tired, hungry and  smelling like a pack of  sweaty foxhounds,   and  who sends  texts that read  "Cancel dinner plans.  Cat can't urinate."

                Turns out  he's kind of heroic too.  He gutted the smoldering  vacuum cleaner after it sucked up  a  live coal from the woodstove  that  ignited  the sweeper  bag full of  pet hair.  By the time I got home the only hint of disaster was the aroma of scorched canine  lingering in the vicinity of the garbage  can.  ("Who's burning?" I asked).    When he   tripped over the blind terrier , he  unselfishly   sacrificed his kneecaps to the kitchen step in order to avoid squashing the diabetic mutt  in his arms.   Exhibiting reflexes I didn't know he possessed,  he threw himself over a  shattered  pudding bowl,   preventing  the dogs from wolfing down chocolate mousse-coated  glass shards  and ending up as the subjects of a Readers' Digest article entitled  "Chilling Veterinary Medical Drama."

                Entertaining?  Quite often, even without the guitar.  Redundant?  Not in the least.