I accidentally dripped some cola on Little Piglet, who sits by the monitor. (He’s cousin to Regular Piglet, who at the moment is in the bedroom.) Anyway, I whisked him off to the bathroom and sprayed some glass cleaner on the spots, then ruffled them with a towel. “Oh no; I’ve bleached him!” I thought at first, then realized that this was his normal color. I covered his arm fully with spritzes of glass cleaner, then ruffled it; then his little head, then the other arm, and so on.
“This is like when Henry Pootel Piglet had a bath,” I thought as a light peach and slate blue creature emerged. “‘Don’t open the mouth dear, or the soap goes in…’” He’s looking at me now, propped up against the calendar. He’s not entirely happy, because his dust coating keeps him cool in the summertime. But I don’t care: when I say it’s bathtime, it’s bathtime!
Maybe that’s at the root of the dateless thing: either a lack of literary appreciation, or a lack of a bathing appraciation, or some combination thereof.
Rilchiam, I love this thread. I keep coming back to read the OP and each time am overtaken by hysterical, weakening, and helpless laughter. I beg you to take that as a compliment.
I have a polar bear named Harvey that went through a similar transformation. Harvey likes to live high on a bookcase, and once spent two undisturbed years up there. I was getting ready to move (out of chance, not choice, I seem to move every two years), and reached up to find that, from the back, Harvey looked more like a grizzly bear than a polar bear. A good game of “throw him up in the air and cach him” (which all bears love) went a long way to helping Harvey regain his pristine coat, but eventually, I did use a wet cloth. He seemed quite pleased to be returned to the shining wonder of a white coat, but still wanted to live on top of the bookcase when I moved to my new place. I imagine that it’s time for another game of catch. Oh, Harvey . . .
