I don’t get it. There are thirteen of them on our bed. Sure, some folks need an extra pillow or two to wrap their arms around or slide between their knees. Me? I’m good with just one under my noggin. But, why do beds always need a dozen more?

Oh, I’ve asked the question any number of times. Sensible answers are slow to arrive. Rita needs more for some reason. Apparently, it isn’t possible to have too many. And, she claims, “they’re essential as household decorations.” This makes no sense either. They don’t decorate the house for any holiday, or change shape or color during Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving or even Ground Hog Day. What they are good for is pitching them to the bedroom floor each evening before crawling in, followed by tripping over one in the middle of the night on way to the bathroom, then retrieving them every morning to spread over the top once more after making the bed – like icing on a cake.

In our house another baker’s dozen pillows adorn the living and dining room chairs and sofa. Some are furry, others not so. None are useful for a Dagwood-style afternoon nap on the couch. An additional sextet are scattered elsewhere in the house – to enable a deadly pillow fight to suddenly break out, should it be necessary. After sleeping on only the mattress pad last night, I got the hint. It was my turn to make the bed.

I retrieved all elements from the clothes dryer, then tossed them on the bed and began untangling sheets from pillow cases. Just four naked pillows appeared devoid of slip covers, but there were enough slips for seven. It wasn’t clear to me which pillow(s) Rita preferred to lay her head on, but I took a guess. Three pillows ended doubled dipped. I wrestled the fitted sheet onto the mattress uneventfully, followed by the cover sheet, applying extra effort to eliminate any wrinkles.

A bedspread probably used by Admiral Peary during his discovery of the North Pole was then hoisted up and onto the bed and also smoothed carefully erasing kinks and creases. Then, the four encased pillows were excavated from the mountain of cushions on the floor and transferred to tilt ever-so-gently toward the headboard. Beautiful work. They were quickly followed by three thirty-six-inch-square burlap-covered units, each tipping the scales at an estimated 15 pounds each, including the grapefruit-sized fur balls anchored at each of four corners. Of course, no bed would be considered fully dressed without the addition of three smaller components with a single large-diameter wooden button to coordinate with the tan piece of artwork mounted over the headboard. It all looked perfect…. until Rita walked in.

I was first lectured the pillow cases had not been placed on the correct pillows. And, not only had I placed the bedspread sideways, but I also failed to properly assure that its innards weren’t knotted up somehow. One of my greatest sins was to have mistakenly placed one of the coup-de-grâs pillow units (with the obligatory, color-coordinated button) facing the wrong direction. Where was Heloise for a hint when I needed her?

After investing a total of 40 minutes, things were finally ready for the next unveiling of the bed again, when pillows would once more be heaved to the floor in a little more than 12 hours. Rita commented with excitement, “I can’t believe how beautiful the bed looks!”

To avoid sleeping on the couch, I answered, “Yeah,” adding like Michael Keaton did for Teri Garr regarding her excitement in the movie Mr. Mom, “I can’t believe it either, hon. None of us can.”

Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, violinist with the Minot Symphony and author of the book, “Retirement? You Can’t HANDLE the Truth!”