I have a caveman. He is clean and fully housebroken. He is adept at the language of cavemen. His assortment of grunts, scratches and other unidentifiable sounds are particularly interesting and even after 15 years can be confusing to me. He can be obstinate as only a caveman can be and fiercely protective if needed. He is a hard worker and a hard napper. And for being a caveman, he moves surprisingly fast when it comes to flight or fight.
He is also my angel.
When I can’t go any further, he is there with a caveman swat in the butt. When I am deep into a prednisone induced meltdown, he sits there silently waiting for me to compose
myself. He follows up the silence with words of wisdom as only a caveman could do. He has to take on most all of the physical work, most of the emotional work, certainly the
financial work and has never denied any of my whims. He shares in my small victories more than I do because in that caveman mind of his, he believes in me.
I don’t know what I ever did to deserve someone like him in my life. Caveman love. That is what he shows me in everything that he does for me everyday.
So , even when I want to conk him on the head with that club of his, somehow his cavemanliness comes barreling through and I can’t help but appreciate the solid grunt and the well placed scratch of my caveman.