#36 PUPPY -- MONKEY BUSINESS
May 7, 2021
In a matter of a few days, I will post a boating blog about ten critical handles on a pattern of bronze pipes but presently, Scooter and I have a story to tell about squeakers tucked in stuffed toys.
Fully grown now at one year and nearly nine months, Scooter has mastered close to twenty commands and signals, knows words aplenty, and the names of nearly every dog and person that matter to him. He knows where the cats live, and can’t understand why they don’t invite him to play; he expresses an appreciation for all foods consumed by his human family (so far, nothing has been rejected), he is learning to differentiate between ringing the bell to the right of the front door for play in the corridor, and that one on the left for going “Out.” He tries hard to read the strong hand signal—palm down, shoved toward the ground—while he hears, “OFF!” That would be “off people.” But really, he says, “What is better than my face meeting yours?”
“Obedience, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
It is a comfort to report that we, Scooter’s people, have nothing to do with the genes that determine that beyond his need for affection, food, fresh water, eye contact, and a comfortable bed, Scooter requires two things: something, anything, big and fluffy to throw around, and squeakers removed from all things called “toy.”
Today, I can report that Scooter has eviscerated, what, four Lambchops, one small and one large stuffed Hedgehog, one small lama, a fuzzy bone, a bunny, a lizard, a many-legged tick, and a pair of my socks. All but the socks came with squeakers buried in fuzzy bodies.
“How about this?” Scooter asks, bringing the large, soft pillow from his bed, shaking it fiercely, meaning I guess, for it either to produce some sound (that it doesn’t have), or to cry “Uncle!”
“No!” we say. He obeys the command to return it to the bed where it belongs. Again.
“How about this?” I asked today, returning from the Pet Store with a near-pillow-sized stuffed Monkey. He wants something big. This is it.
“That looks very good!” says Scooter who took it, rolled it about for a while before looking up at his people to say, “Oh! Listen to this! There are SIX squeakers in this perfect gift. SIX. Just listen!”
And listen we did, as Scooter moved strong jaws from foot to foot, to tummy, and nose; he made that monkey sound like our friend playing scales on her flute. Rapture, spread across his face.
“Could you have found a more perfect gift?” he stood over Monkey in his most Sublime stance.
“We might have,” I said.
~ ~ ~
Now, friends, below, see the picture with the cake testing pin inserted in the first of four monkey feet. The pin has harmlessly, painlessly, reached, and pierced the squeaker. And then a second foot. I did only two today.
Now, imagine Scooter getting monkey back and squeezing said feet. The squeakers are there, he knows. But they are not speaking, regardless of his insistence.
“What?” he asks.
“No idea,” say I.
