Bob the Buffalo

"Honeeeeey,“ I called from my computer station in the back of the kitchen, “I need your help!”

“What is it, Dear?” came my husband’s monotone reply from behind his open newspaper.

“I’ve been asked to be a guest judge on my writing site.”

“That’s nice, Dear. You can do that. So what’s the problem?”

“I have to think of the prompt. You know, the subject matter of what I’m gonna judge.”

“So, what’s wrong with that?” he said looking at me both over his paper and reading classes, one eyebrow raised.

“Nothing, I guess, it’s just that I’m having trouble thinking of something interesting and unique. I want something that will get their creative juices flowing. My writer’s block seems to have spilled over into any creative endeavor I try these days.”

“Don’t be silly, Honey. You are the most creative person I know. This shouldn’t be a problem for you. Just look around the room for ideas.

"I know! Ask them to write what would happen if suddenly a real-live buffalo appeared in their kitchens,” he offered glaring at the stuffed buffalo that loomed atop the computer monitor. “Why is that buffalo there, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s Skeeve’s. She didn’t take it when she moved away. It’s kind of cute, don't you think? I really don’t know what else to do with it. Maybe I should just send it to her?”

“Good idea.”

“Any other bright ideas for the prompt?” I pried.

“Umm… how about how annoyed your husband gets when you say you’re not creative?”

“I like the buffalo one better.”

“I know!" he grinned, waving his arm around the room. “Have them come up with good reasoning to keep an umpteen thousand beer bottle collection.”

“Hey – I like my beer bottle collection!” I cried defensively. “It’s not like you didn’t get to enjoy the contents! I just want the bottles, you get to drink the insides.”

“Yes, Dear, we know. I’m not trying to instigate a fight, just offering a suggestion, like you asked.

“Okay better yet," he continued, "have them write about the good old days when wives actually cooked for their husbands!”

“Now you’re really picking on me. You know I hate to cook. Besides, Don't I always make you breakfast? Here have some more.” I filled his cup.

“A nutritious cup of wholesome black coffee, gee thanks. Don’t worry, I’ll just waste away to nothing with little complaint. At least I’ll be wide awake.”

“Well anyway, I think I like the buffalo idea... That’s it! I’ll ask them to write a story about finding a buffalo in their living space. Imagine waking up and one morning, going out to the kitchen to pour your first cup of “nutritious” coffee, and lo, a big stinky buffalo is staring and snorting at you!”

“Especially if you live on the fifth floor!” he added.

“It's a bit Kafkaesque, don’t you think? Maybe they should ‘wake up’ and discover they’ve morphed into a buffalo?” I wondered.

“That may work.”

“Well, I’ll think of something,” I said. I grabbed the buffalo and started to leave the room.

“Hey! Where are you going with Bob?”

“Bob?... Bob? You named the buffalo... Bob? I was going to stick him in the pile of stuff to send to Skeve.”

“Oh, but it’s been there for sooo long. It’s like a fixture... a family icon!”

“Hmm. Okay, 'Bob,'” I sighed putting it back in place, “you stay here until Skeve specifically asks for you."

“Besides,” came the voice from behind the paper again, “Bob may be the inspiration to the next great-American novel! You never know?”

“Okay, folks,” I said out loud to my potential contestants, “I made up my mind, write a poem or short story about ‘Bob the buffalo’ who lives in the kitchen by the beach in sunny, suburban Southern California.

“That was easy, Honey, thanks.”

“Don’t thank me," he said nonchalantly, "thank Bob.”

Eyebrow still raised, he murmered under his breath, “This could be exciting, a buffalo and a blonde... Yep, you two make a good team!”