It is Sunday morning, and my wife is in the next room, preparing herself for a day of castrating llamas over at the university where she studies veterinary medicine. An 80-year-old man in the state over from ours has gotten too old to take care of his many llamas, and so they have arrived here in our shoulder of the woods. Because of this, she is practicing her knots on her small blue suture board. I am alternating between reading a magazine and stroking my cats. I have a cold, and am feeling sorry for myself. My wife rarely gets colds, and when she does, they stay for a day or two, and she carries on, barely acknowledging her discomfort. Often, they quickly move on to a weaker host — someone who doesn’t spend her/his Sundays castrating llamas and rescuing wild birds. Me — in other words.
I can best her in an arm wrestle, but if our souls were to wrestle, I am certain hers would slay mine every time.