So earlier this week, I got the dreaded disease that can make even the strongest of the male species of human retire to his deathbed under covers.

Yes, I caught the dreaded man-flu.

For those of you that have never caught this malady (like my wife), you cannot possibly understand the gravity of the illness.

I freely admit that when I get sick, it is a pain. My blood sugars go on a rollercoaster ride. 

So, this week, when I awoke and realized I was now on my death bed, I turned to my wife looking for the sympathy of the love of my life. 

I was waiting for her sympathy, maybe I could hold her one last time before I slipped my earthly bonds.

 “You need to feed the dogs.”

What!? On my sickbed, I could see the Grim Reaper standing in the corner of the room, waiting to take my soul and she wants me to brave the air-conditioned cold to feed the dogs?

So, I grumbled as I got out of bed. “Just wait till I die from this, that will show her.”

I’ll bet my dogs will show me sympathy. You don’t call them man’s best friend for nothing.

Boy, was I wrong.

Traitors. 

They descended on me in my weakened condition and sucked up the food from their bowls. I say sucked, ‘cause I cannot figure out how you can chew that much food that fast. I should have named them Hoover, Dyson, and Bissell instead of Bill, Bernie, and Roswell.

So, my dogs fed and walked. 

I had to brave the freezing 73 degrees outside to ensure they had a chance to sniff each blade of grass and bug in existence. We were safely back inside, and I could once more get back to the business of putting my final affairs in order.

Let’s see. Will? Check. 

Life Insurance Policy? Check. 

Pyramid? No, but it’s too late now.  

So, I had curled up with my coffee and prepared to meet my maker. 

I just hope he was ready to meet me.

After a couple of minutes, I got a text. From my wife, who I assume had to force herself to leave my side in my condition. 

After all, after I was gone, she would need the extra income to survive.

Do not forget you are supposed to see the doctor today.

Yay. All I need is some doctor poking me and prodding me in my final hours.

But, I fear my wife’s wrath more than most things. So, I got ready to see the doctor.

I just hoped that there were not too many people in the waiting room.

I mean what if I had Ebola?

Or some dreaded Zombie disease.

OMG! What if I were in the first steps of becoming a Zombie? 

That could explain why the coffee was still unfinished. I was struggling to walk across the floor. I mean, it was probably more because my artificial leg was not on correctly, but still!

I was becoming a zombie. 

Will my insurance cover that?

I needed to hurry to the doctor before the urge to eat brains overtook me.

I made my way to the doctor, hoping I would not just wander off somewhere, or start eating brains of the nurses in her office.

Two hours and $50 dollars later, I found out that I was not becoming a zombie. 

I just had a cold and it would clear up in a couple of days.

I just needed plenty of rest.

Wasn’t that what I originally wanted?

Back at home, I walked the dogs one more time and headed off to bed.

A few hours later I feel a tug on the covers. My beloved wife had returned from the high school she teaches at.

“You stayed in bed all day? Did you see the doctor?”

“Yes, the doctor told me too.”

My wife rolled her eyes, “My poor baby. You get a case of the sniffles and you think you are dying.”

Too bad I didn’t become a zombie, I thought.

That would show her.

I merely grunted and rolled over.

 

Michael Cole is a syndicated columnist that when he is not writing, he is plotting global domination. You can follow him at www.storyoveracup.com