My husband is getting wild in bed.

Now, before you get all panicky and hide the paper from the children, I assure you the following will be suitable for a family newspaper.

The wildness I speak of isn’t sexual. (Not to say there aren’t SOME sparks left in the ol’ 28-year marriage. But that’s none of your business, and I only clarify the point so people won’t point and whisper when we’re out on the town: “Look, there go the Hamiltons. Did you hear? No sparks!”) No, I’m talking about the wild cacophony of noises he makes while he sleeps.

An early riser, my husband retires for the evening around 10 p.m. Thirty minutes to an hour later, I make my approach. Stealthily, I pad to the bedroom and stick my head through the door. I pause and listen.

He is still.

(“In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight:.”)

Swiftly, I make my way toward the bed and slip under the covers. I lie there, willing myself to fall asleep before the call of the wild pierces the night.

Five minutes pass, then 10. I concentrate on breathing and feel my heartbeat slow to a measured tempo. The room is silent.

Just when I’m ready to drift off to Slumber Land – after I’ve shaken off that annoying twitch that occurs before deep, delicious dormancy takes hold – he starts to warm up.

First, the mouth opens and I hear the soft whisper of the wind. In and out it flows, getting louder with every breath. Soon, the sound takes on a deep, guttural quality like a grizzly bear or a giant saliva-sucking hose, the kind the dentist uses.

Trying desperately to maintain my drowsiness, I give him a shove and grunt loudly, for effect.

He inhales deeply, rolls over and, for a while, all is calm.

Quick! Here’s my chance! I roll over on my left side, facing away from him and start counting backward from 100. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven:. I’m almost there.

Then, from across the king-sized bed, I hear his jaw drop. Again, I detect the movement of air.

Gghhhhaaaaaa::hhhhhheeewwww:

Gghhhhaaaaaa::hhhhhheeewwww:

It gets louder and louder, but there seems to be a rhythm this time. Maybe I can just roll with it. Sync up with the ebb and flow. I match my breaths to his.

Inhaaaaaaaale::.exhaaaaaaaaale:.

Inhaaaaaaaale::.exhaaaaaaaaale:.

Hey, it works! The even-tempo, four-four time is lulling me back to dreamland. Until:

Hg-kaaaa! Hg-kaaaa! Kga-kga-kga!!

He sputters and snorts like an old lawn mower starting up for the first time in May.

At this point, I must make a decision. I can a) seek shelter on the family room sofa; b) find respite in the upstairs guest room; or c) suffocate him with my pillow.

C is out because I don’t want to kill him. Not permanently. It’s not like he can help it, poor guy. And, besides, his snoring isn’t a chronic condition. It appears to be tied to colds, allergies or too-big holiday meals. Months can go by and I won’t hear a peep out of him. (Unfortunately, this is not one of those months.)

Besides, sleeping next to me is no picnic. Not with my nightly “Dance of a Thousand Flails.” Kicking the covers off when I’m hot; yanking them back on when I’m cold. The way I toss and turn and sigh, flipping my pillow upside-down to find a cool place to rest my head. And, yes, I’ve been told I saw an occasional log or two myself. Not what you call a bedfellow’s dream.

Maybe we’re destined to become one of those couples who maintain separate bedrooms in their old age. The ones people point at and whisper about when they’re out on the town. (“Look, there go the Hamiltons. Did you hear? Separate bedrooms!”)

I’m not ready to take that step. Not yet. I enjoy sharing a bed with the man I love. It feels comfortable, safe and warm (a bit TOO warm at times, but don’t miss my point.) I may cherish my sleep, but I treasure him even more. I’m determined to make it work.

That is, until I hear the next call of the wild.