Thursday, February 25, 2016
We weren’t even watching the Super Bowl. We knew it was a historic game. This would be the Dowager Countess’ last Super Bowl after a storied career. No one could dispute that she is the greatest of all time.
Mommy doesn’t dislike football, she just finds it tedious. She does like to watch the end of the game when there is a chance of drama worthy of the Dowager Countess. My downfall was that Mommy likes to watch the commercials. Usually she DVRs everything and fast forwards through the commercials but Super Bowl Sunday is opposite day and she only watches the commercials.
And that was my undoing.
A commercial came on for a sugary, highly caffeinated bottle of green soul rot that no one in their right mind would buy without a marketing hook. I had my eyes shut paying no attention to the drivel when I heard the words “Puppy Monkey Baby” and felt a chill go down my spine.
I have been “Baby” since the day I walked into our house. Two years ago, against my wishes, my Mom began calling me a monkey. And Puppy and Pocket sound alike. Mommy was on her computer. She wasn’t paying attention. Maybe it had slipped by.
I felt her warm hands wrap around me then lift me from my spot next to her leg. “It’s Pocket Monkey Baby,” she said. Darnit! It hadn’t slipped by. She turned me to face Daddy. “It’s Pocket Monkey Baby,” she said. Oh man, this is how nickname catch on.
“Hello Pocket Monkey Baby!” he said.
Darnit it had caught on.
And that name, Pocket Monkey Baby, has stuck with me all winter like a nasty cold. But unlike colds they don’t make an antibiotic for Pocket Monkey Babies. I’m afraid this one is going to cling to me for many a day.
Yours trulyPocket Monkey Baby
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