Wait! Chance lives with us, too. He's a newborn cubby someone left in a basket on our doorstep. He's a wee little thing. I look after Chance, too. He's a handful!
Know what? Chance is so little he doesn't talk. He makes squeaky noises when he's happy and squawky noises when he's hungry or has poo in his diaper. He doesn't like to wear his diaper. He takes it off when no one is looking. He doesn't have any teeth. Chance doesn't eat Smarties or peanut butter and licorice sandwiches, like me. Chance can only drink condensed owls' milk from a bottle.
Know what else Chance does? Chance climbs things. He can climb way up high but he can't get down. Last Christmas he climbed up to the top of the Christmas tree. I had to say, "My son! Come down from there this instant!"
Chance climbed up into the tree. He likes to be way up high. He likes to look down. Then he gets scared 'cuz it's a long way down and he's a very tiny little cubby. One time the fire fighters came in their big red fire truck and they had to rescue him.
I could be a fire fighter, you know. I could wear a helmet and boots. I could squirt water on a fire. When I wasn't busy fighting fires, I could rescue Chance and kittens, too!
Oh. Wait! Did you hear that? James is hollering, "Where are my handsome bear cubs? Where are my Sons of Windsor? Where are my Princes of Ontario? That's me! Charles! That's Chance! We're handsome bear cubs. We're Sons of Windsor and Princes of Ontario! We gotta go find James so we can get our ears tickled and our noses kissed.
1 comment:
Howdy, sir - I'm going through Bobby Orr's Knees - hope to have some thoughts on it shortly. Glad to see you're doing better.
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