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Archive for the ‘Grate Litrachure’ Category

With apologies to Rudyard Kipling. Come to think of it, to everyone else, really.

You may talk of fish and fowl;
You may even serve up owl
When breakfast is prepared within your house.
But when the evening falls
Bringing darkness to your halls,
That’s when nothing will suffice but Blue Felt Mouse.

Then it’s mouse, mouse, mouse—
You’d better say your prayers now Mousie Blue
‘Cause when Buddy gets the scent
You will wonder where he went,
And you’ll turn to find he’s chasing after you.

Now in morning’s coldest hours
When the bravest of us cowers
Buddy roams restlessly about.
He bounds from room to room
Wreaking havoc, fear, and doom
On creatures that he spies inside and out.

At each window he stands guard
Searching long and searching hard
For perils that would come invade his house.
But when boredom settles in
He turns all his thoughts within
And seeks to pick a fight with Blue Felt Mouse.

When it’s spied behind the door,
Buddy gives his fiercest roar
And reaches to retrieve the miscreant.
Then he tosses it around
With a leap and with a bound.
Soon it throws him to the floor and makes him pant.

It’s a din, din, din—
The caretaker is wakened by the din.
She runs to the bedroom door,
Turns her eyes down to the floor,
In time to witness Buddy get the win.

With no choice but to succumb
To Buddy’s bellicose aplomb
The Blue Felt Mouse lies lifeless from the fray.
Now sleep is murdered too,
But that is nothing new,
For Buddy wakes the whole house every day.

But when order’s been restored
By the strength of Buddy’s sword,
The champion collects his precious spoils.
Then he lays his burden down
In a box that he has found
And rests himself from all his grueling toils.

Now our king, king, king—
Buddy the king has conquered all.
So until the next alert
Or a crisis to avert,
He’ll stand guard until it’s time to start a brawl.

To the Victor Go the Spoils

To the Victor Go the Spoils

 

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This past week as the final vestiges of Buddy’s illness have subsided, the caretaker has been on a quest to rid the house of germs. Not the regular, garden variety of germ, of course. That sort is a harmless fact of life. No, her goal has been to vanquish the venomous variety that laid low a mighty king. It is rare for His Majesty to need a champion, but this has been such an occasion.

To that end, surfaces have been slathered with disinfectant, windows have been washed, and the washing machine has worked overtime cleaning blankets, sheets, pillows, throws, bedspreads, curtains, rugs—in sum, anything and everything upon which Buddy might have sneezed. Even the throne has not been exempt from this massive pre-spring cleaning project. Fortunately, the caretaker had purchased a backup throne to use anytime the real one was being spruced up. So by Saturday morning almost everything in the house had been disinfected in one way or another.

The last stronghold was the beloved sock monkey bed, the cleansing of which was a most precarious task, given that its species is extinct, as discovered by the caretaker when she searched the electronic Mirkwood known as the Internet to search for another one. Therefore, much sadness would ensue if anything at all went wrong with the treasured friend.

Anything. At. All.

But why should it? As evidenced by the care tag (which has not been removed, on threat of imprisonment), Sock Monkey is machine washable. And this was certainly not his first dance in sudsy water. The only difference was that this time it would be necessary to ensure that whatever germs might survive the bathwater would die a hideous death in the dryer’s heat. And so the sequence went something like this, with Steps 3 and 4 being essentially simultaneous:

1. Wash.

2. Rinse.

3. Dry.

4. Shrink.

5. Remove from dryer and return to Buddy’s cot.

Mind you, Sock Monkey has many wonderful qualities. He is as whimsical as he ever was. He is cleaner than he has ever been. He is fluffy beyond belief.

But sadly, his inner circumference is no longer large enough to enclose Buddy’s frame comfortably. And gentle readers, do not deceive yourselves into thinking Buddy has no idea who is responsible for his predicament. As soon as his extra-large girth tried to squeeze into the now medium-at-best Sock Monkey, his face fell like a faulty soufflé and he glared at the guilty caretaker. If you doubt his ability to, um, size up the situation, just study his accusatory look:

A Tight Fit

A Tight Fit

Alas, the pristinity of the bed can never make up for its lack of comfort. One wonders if Buddy might have wished for Sock Monkey to have gone the way of the Velveteen Rabbit. Poor Sock. He is the innocent party in all of this. He had no way of knowing that snug isn’t how you are made, that it’s a thing that happens to you in the heat of the clothes dryer.

Let’s hope the nursery magic Fairy shows up soon. Otherwise, the situation will be a bit awkward for a while.

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