Hoarders: Childhood Obsessions

Tuesday, February 22, 2011 | 0 Comment(s)

My parents met Grover for the first time this past weekend.  My mother, predictably, quickly fell in love.  She has a large and open heart for dogs, so she was kinda an easy sell (like mother like son).  My father, is not quite the dog lover.  More than that, my dad enjoys watching his peers get dogs in the same way that a Bond villain watches a laser creep towards a crotch.  I believe he sees a dog as an incredible, possibly life crippling, responsibility.  And that it a little mini-hell.  That said, when my uncle, my father's brother, called today and remarked that dad had mentioned how cute the puppy was,  I knew he was crumbling.  Falling prey to the cuteness which is the Grovester.  Muahahahahahahaa.  Your move bond.

This is all to say that when they came and visited, they brought Grover a new toy.  A huge, tennis ball material, squeaking bone.  Grover loves it.  *squeak squeak*  *squeak squeak*   It is definitely not a night time toy.    I told my parents to give him 15 minutes, and it would be destroyed.  "how?!" they asked, "it's huge."   12 minutes later Grover is peeling the tennis-ball material off the "bone" for no clear apparent reason other than the joy of the knowledge that he figured out how to destroy it.  Touche doggy.  Touche. 

it's art
There were mixed reactions to this behavior.  First, we all laughed at the accuracy of my premonition.  Then people got a little nervous.  "he's gonna eat the material"  "is that ok?"  Me, i took this stance (in my mind).  There are so many things i am scared of my puppy getting into.  Rat poison, poison berries, chocolate stash, onion stash, porcupine, porcupine fish, hedgehog, all other spine-equipped animals, skunks, fire ants.  You get the point.  I figure an object especially designed to get demolished by a dog is probably the least of my worries.  I recognize that this is potentially an incredibly naive and dangerous presumption.  I don't so much care.  Mind your own business. 

Because of this stance, i was noticeably nonplussed by the whole affair.  My family, my parents especially, were more worried.  "What's the big deal?" i remarked.   "Well, we didn't all eat fuzz as a kid."

Which brings us to today's story.

When i was little.  Very little.  Tiny little.  Huge eyes on a little face doe eyed bambi cute little.  We had a downstairs tv/family room.  The tv turned on and off by pulling the tiny knob (hehe) out, and twisting for volume.  This is a long time ago.  In said room, we had an amazing shag orange rug.  it was obviously the product of an earlier *cough 70's cough* era.  But it was just so homey and warm that it truly pulled the room together.  I loved it.  Part of what i loved about that rug was the texture and consistency of the material it was made out of.  I found that if you pulled a piece of fuzz off the rug, it highlighted this consistency.  And i'd play with it.  Roll it between my fingers.  Pull it apart and back together.  And then folks, then, i put it in my mouth. 

it is a popular misconception that i ate fuzz.  I did graze that shag piece of love like a termite to wood, but i did not eat it.  Or at least i really don't remember swallowing (hehe).  I recall rolling it around my mouth and tongue and enjoying the strange stringy crunchiness.  And yes, i realize that this is unbelievably grotesque.  But this is history, and all i can do is try to give you as accurate a recounting as i possibly can.  I don't still do it.  But i do think back and this might have been the first instance of thinking "i don't think this kid is gonna be altogether normal." Or maybe it just predicted me getting a tongue ring many years later.  And before you make fun of my hilarious decision to pierce my tongue at 18.  I still have it.

jokes on you.

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