Twas Brillig

My intentions were good. I thought I was being so helpful. O, foul wretch that I am, I never meant for this to happen.

Frankly, George stank. A lot. “He needs a bath,” I explained to his friend and owner, Scooby. I’ve given George a “bath” before and it was inconsequential. He came out sparkling clean and smelling less like… well… a two-year-old boy’s favorite toy.

George was given his name because, as far as Scooby is concerned, ALL monkeys are named George. He is my son’s beloved friend, confidant, and bodyguard. George can do no wrong. And I appreciate George too, because of the level of comfort that he gives to my Scooby, particularly during difficult transitions (moving from one home to another, for instance…). George is a constant companion, and sleep comes to a screeching halt when he’s missing.

It took much convincing for Scooby to allow me to bathe George. As you all know, reasoning with a two-year-old is an exercise in futility. Grudgingly, Scooby eventually allowed me to put George into the washer. But he was NOT pleased with me.

And thus, Gentle Readers, you can only imagine my horror when, upon opening the washer half an hour later, I found soggy bits of George, strewn here and there, no longer attached to each other.

George is dead.

I murdered him.

His cotton filling blood stains my hands.

Now he is dead, now he is fled, his soul is in the sky.

I shall take up this stuffed animal and bear him to the tomb.

And then… I’ll have to find a way to let Scooby know of his mother’s villainy.

There are likely to be many, many sleepless nights around here.