I am considering starting a new blog. The Adventures of Elvis’s Monkey.
Fifteen years ago when my son was three years old a friend gave him a stuffed monkey. He didn’t care much for it. It sat in his room for a while. It got packed in a box and moved with us. Twice. And then it sat in his room some more.
As soon as he was big enough our cat, Elvis, adopted the monkey. At first he would just play with it. Throw it around and chase its tail as it flipped and flopped on the hardwood. He’s loved it so much that its fur has worn off in spots.
Elvis is now twelve years old and still has his monkey.
This morning the monkey was on the green chair in the den where Elvis had slept last night. It was there when I left the house.
When I got back to the house three hours later the monkey was upstairs in my unmade bed.
Sometimes when my husband is at home alone working, he hears Elvis moving his monkey around. He holds it in his mouth and drags it up or down the stairs. But not quietly. He kind of talks to it while he’s doing it. He cries with it in his mouth so it comes out as a a muffled meow. It’s actually really pathetic.
I wonder what Elvis is thinking? “Come on little buddy, lets go have a nap upstairs.”
I wonder what the monkey is thinking? “When is this cat going to leave me alone?”
I bet they have some stories to tell.