Untitled

Pajamas with feet - for adults, I mean - proved to be a great success. In fact, after celebrity endorsements started, my mom ran down to Meyer and Frank and bought 3 for my Dad. He was returning from Madagascar after an ornithological expedition to find the elusive Three-Toed Frogstomper, and his feet had just gotten worn out. He hadn't actually found a Three-Toed Frogstomper, but what he found instead was an interesting Four-Toed variety.

Mom was amazed they had grown frog feet for Dad. She also got a pair of fuzzy slippers attached to a nightgown - an attempted variation on a theme she was assaulted with 3 hours a night on late-nite-TV and now succumbed to with a sense of relief unrivaled only by how good it felt to blink regularly.

Dad actually had the cool red pajamas with the "trunk flap" in addition to the footies, and the flannel was thick and soft. collar. Ah! The warmth! If only Mom had got the ones with a button closure - for the extra $2.50 - although Kitty found a great toy in chasing after the flapping piece of fabric when he walked around, and was riding caboose when he went to the cage to check the Frogstomper.

Kitty had never seen any animal but the Frogstomper in the flesh, and consequently she thought of all creatures in that idiom. A dog was not that pasty 2 dimensional shape that said Bow in all the books - no, it must be just a kind of furry Frogstomper, with a longer tail that wagged instead of shook, and mouth possessed of more teeth. The same with ducks, pigs, etc. She loved the stomper with true passion, most of all because it neither made exaggerated sounds at her, nor did it ever go "Shush!" Now she reached a hand in to pat it. And it snuggled its forehead into her palm, purring in the key of E-flat and looking up gratefully into her face, making contact with all six eyes. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

Oh, that was just too cute. The six wink. She had the cleverest stomper. He could even fetch his squeaky ball from over in the corner, roll it over to the center of the cage and pogo-stomp it. Squeak squeak squeak squeak! Squeak squeak!

Too bad her father was planning to stuff it. He hadn't quite been able to articulate this plan yet, especially since his wife was now proud of him for once. Not for any daring adventure or original scientific work he had done - but for doing something that pleased one of their children. He was present for longer than a week, at last, and he finally appeared capable of bonding with his offspring. But stuffing the stomper was imperative, if he was ever to gain tenure. And he needed tenure. He needed the corner office with the view of the giant toothpaste company clock. His daughter would just have to learn - albeit early - about survival of the fittest.

"Kitty-" he began, his throat squawking, "that is a scientific specimen."