He Is Better Than a Therapist

He listened to our argument with a smile on his face. Who is this guy? My husband asked, pointing to the place. That’s just a stuffed snowman, I said. You can ignore him. That’s when he jumped down and chucked me on my chin. He gave a whoop-dee-doo and he turned himself about. He whistled and he wiggled and he gave us both a shout. He’s dangerous my husband said, hiding quickly behind me. It made me mad and so I gave him the bony part of my bad knee. Is he alive then? My husband asked, shuddering in his boots. I had no idea, but just then the dogs ran in – both enormously big galoots. They chased that snowman around the room, and he laughed a happy laugh. The argument had all but stopped and there was no aftermath. He’s better than our therapist, my husband hissed, and I had to agree. He lives with us now, and he stops arguments between him and me. Saving a hundred dollars an hour, and he gives us something fun to do. We chase him around the room and wiggle and whistle with him too.