Once a month, the warthog emerges. Like a werewolf in a full moon, she bursts, full-throttle, from the dark, sinister depths of her home office, hair uncombed, breasts throbbing, voice peeling the paint and the crayon doodles off the walls.

Run, children, run, for this creature shall force you to eat all three carrots on your plate! Run, children, run, for this creature shall make you put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of on the floor next to said laundry basket. Run!

The warthog has no patience and likes to nibble, slowly on naughty, defiant children. Foraging in the refrigerator and cabinets for something sweet or salty, she ROARS with frustration that only organic squeezie yogurts and Annie’s Ranch Bunnies are available for devouring.

“Who wants to go to 7-11?!!!” she trumpets at 6:30 p.m. so she can grab handfuls of contraband Raisinettes and Cheetoes for late night snacking with US Weekly, ignoring her husband’s raised eyebrow.

The warthog feels fat. And hairy. “Pants again today,” she mumbles to herself on a 90-degree day… the warthog has no tolerance for Gillette stubble or Nair wounds right now.

The warthog feels misunderstood. For she sobs about the kids, the state of her marriage, the job that she used to have, the job that she wants to have, the word “job,” and her bumbling and stumbling writing attempts. Her hooves feel all scratchy and dull and even a mani-pedi doesn’t make her feel better, well, at least for more than an hour or so.

Signs pop up in the front yard of her house – “Beware: Warthog on the Loose” and “Come Back in Five Days” – for any unsuspecting friends who might think of zipping over for an impromptu hello. The mailman throws the mail from the sidewalk. The paperboy, from the porch of the house five doors away. And as for the FedEx guy, that’s the last time he shows up with a package that didn’t come overnight like it was supposed to.

She had him for lunch. Grunt. Snarl.

But then the warthog begins to feel better. The curse slowly lifts and large rainbows appear and her children come out from behind the couch. “Oh, Mom, you should have seen her this time…” Ah, yes, who was that diabolical creature that inhabited her body for those five days? And what shall we do next month when the snaggletoothed warthog raises her hairy head yet again???

As her brave and loyal husband unzips from his camouflage jumpsuit and emerges, slowly, carefully, from his barricade from behind the ficus plant, he not so subtly says, “Next month, we’re taking you to the vet.”

By Annie Yearout

Labels: Annie Yearout

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