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I've been hideously negligent about posting as of late, which is especially bad when there's stories to tell. Some stories are easily put to rest, like my father and stepmother coming out to see us this past weekend (it was a pleasant, quiet, relatively uneventful visit, all told). And some are less stories than ongoing developments, like Kristi's sister Marci moving into the former back porch. But then there are the tales of earth-shattering importance-with-a-capital-Imp that they cannot wait.
Allow me to introduce Abbey's new guinea pig, Chelsea.
This one was all Grandma's fault. See, it was bad enough that Kristi had decided to move six states away, but she made it worse by taking two of the house's four spoiled-beyond-recognition cats with her. She was in her rights to do so, since they were technically her cats (and between you, me and the chandelier, I'm rather glad to see them go), but unfortunately, Mookie, one of the two to go, had been sleeping on Abbey's bed every night for months, which of course makes it Abbey's De Facto Cat. So Grandma, using the sort of traditional grandmotherly wisdom that has served this nation well, decided to soften the blow by getting her the guinea pig she'd been hinting about (and none too timidly) since time immemorial.
The only thing on this planet cuter than a guinea pig is a guinea pig being doted on by a seven-year-old who's indulging her maternal instincts. Folks, she was reading to it on Saturday afternoon. She left the TV on all day so it wouldn't get bored. It's a wonder she hasn't put any doll clothes on the poor thing yet. Grandma came running in a panic when she heard Abbey crying out the other day, only to be told, "Guess what? Chelsea drank from her water bottle!"
The one thing we need to drill into her head, though, is that she is absolutely prohibited from taking Chelsea out of her cage without grownups present. She thinks this is unfair, but there are reasons behind it. On Sunday, while I was playing a board game with my visiting dad, Abbey came up to me with That Look on her face, saying, "Dad, you'd better come see what happened." (I can hear the parents reading this cringe in sympathy.) What had happened, apparently, was that Abbey had decided that the little critter really wanted to frolic about on Daddy's bed. What she discovered, however, was that neurotic little bundles of rodentia much prefer to frolic under Daddy's bed, which meant much poking and stretching to rescue the poor thing.
Oh, and Nik? Since Grandma couldn't very well leave him out, she got him a fish, which he promptly named Fish. He's such a literalist, that boy.
Allow me to introduce Abbey's new guinea pig, Chelsea.
This one was all Grandma's fault. See, it was bad enough that Kristi had decided to move six states away, but she made it worse by taking two of the house's four spoiled-beyond-recognition cats with her. She was in her rights to do so, since they were technically her cats (and between you, me and the chandelier, I'm rather glad to see them go), but unfortunately, Mookie, one of the two to go, had been sleeping on Abbey's bed every night for months, which of course makes it Abbey's De Facto Cat. So Grandma, using the sort of traditional grandmotherly wisdom that has served this nation well, decided to soften the blow by getting her the guinea pig she'd been hinting about (and none too timidly) since time immemorial.
The only thing on this planet cuter than a guinea pig is a guinea pig being doted on by a seven-year-old who's indulging her maternal instincts. Folks, she was reading to it on Saturday afternoon. She left the TV on all day so it wouldn't get bored. It's a wonder she hasn't put any doll clothes on the poor thing yet. Grandma came running in a panic when she heard Abbey crying out the other day, only to be told, "Guess what? Chelsea drank from her water bottle!"
The one thing we need to drill into her head, though, is that she is absolutely prohibited from taking Chelsea out of her cage without grownups present. She thinks this is unfair, but there are reasons behind it. On Sunday, while I was playing a board game with my visiting dad, Abbey came up to me with That Look on her face, saying, "Dad, you'd better come see what happened." (I can hear the parents reading this cringe in sympathy.) What had happened, apparently, was that Abbey had decided that the little critter really wanted to frolic about on Daddy's bed. What she discovered, however, was that neurotic little bundles of rodentia much prefer to frolic under Daddy's bed, which meant much poking and stretching to rescue the poor thing.
Oh, and Nik? Since Grandma couldn't very well leave him out, she got him a fish, which he promptly named Fish. He's such a literalist, that boy.
