Over Christmas, I visited some friends whose chaotic household includes three pets: a cat, a shepherd mix, and a Great Dane-black lab mix (who distinguished herself this holiday season by graphically failing to digest six dozens' worth of cookie dough all over the kitchen floor in the midst of the annual nog-oriented festivities - but that's another story). During the several days I was there, the pets seemed hell-bent on destroying their Christmas toy. They were already in the final phases of their efforts: all I could make out of the toy in question was an indiscriminate, slobbery lump of red and green plush loosely swathing an electronic device that still feebly played "We wish you a Merry Christmas" upon each toothy impact. It was funny and incongruous to see the beloved furry pets turn into fierce beasts determined to rip those cheery little pre-recorded carolers to shreds.
Several days later the neighbs's mother, in keeping with tradition, received - with the usual disappointment - the silliest present in the family gift exchange (the kind where you draw numbers, open one present, swap, steal, et cetera). It was a tiny plush chimpanzee wearing a cape and a Zorro mask. When you pulled back his elastic arms you could fling him, slingshot style, a fair distance, and once in the air he emitted a wild monkey screech. Hilarity ensued.
The neighb's mom hoped she could interest her cat in Christmas Chimp, but Gus scampered off during the initial at-home trial launch. Grendl, on the other hand, perked up his ears and bounded to where Christmas Chimp had landed, picked him up, pranced over to me and laid Christmas Chimp on my feet with an expectant smile. Naturally, Christmas Chimp now resides in our pantry, where he is kept safe from evisceration between nightly play sessions.
As funny as he is, and as much delight as Grendl takes from him, Christmas Chimp makes me sad. Intended for human enjoyment, he has instead gone straight to the dogs. Undoubtedly he was made in faraway lands by tiny, tiny hands who probably coveted a Christmas Chimp of their own to slingshot. He was conceived to stuff the stocking of some affluent tot, or at least to evoke occasional merriment from atop someone's computer monitor. Instead, he bypassed such dubious purposes altogether, destined to be drooled upon by a fanged creature incapable of appreciating his adorable little chimp face and the rakishness of his cape and mask.
I, of course, do appreciate these things; but then again, I'm the one who threw him to the wolves in the first place, so to speak. The anthropomorphic side of me cringes every time I throw the poor little guy. His recorded monkey screech sounds less playful and more plaintive with each passing day. I dread the moment that the screeching stops altogether, and the floppy, saliva-drenched, silent form gets deposited in my lap as Grendl once again says, make it go, Mama!
Also, I can't help but feel sorry for Hedgehog, who once enjoyed pride of place in the pantry amid the abandoned frisbees, tug toys and woolly footballs. Her earthy grunt no longer sounds in our hallway, having dulled in comparison to Christmas Chimp's electronic charms. She languishes in crusty solitude, waiting for that cursed battery to expire.
And that, friends, is why I am not allowed so much around the inanimate objects.
