My Poofy-Goochie-Schnoogah-Boogah

The brave Mr. Chinchy bounds around the bed, seeking out new adventure, looking for a chance to rebel against the hand that feeds. He only likes the hand sometimes. Those times are when the hand has food, when the hand scratches him behind his ears, and when the hand is warm and a nice surface to warm his cold little toes on.

“I am big! I shall rule the world!” He declares triumphantly, leaping with stealth surely the hand knows not. “The tough, the mighty SKYHOPPER will one day overcome!”

He assures himself there will be no more name-calling once he is in charge. “No more, ‘Boogie-boo’, no more ‘Gooey-buggah’, no more ‘Mr. Chinchy’, and especially no more ‘Gutchy-whutchy-toochy-moochy-fluuguh-moogah-schnoogah-loogah-booshie-gooshie!’” He mutters to himself. “Once I have successfully jumped off the bed and out into the freedom that has hitherto been denied me, I will call HER silly names, but certainly not in that tone of voice!!”

With that, he took a running leap for the floor. But it was the hand that fed! It was the denier of liberty and justice! She had grabbed him mid-air, and now was pressing her nose against his, and crossing her eyes, and saying in that same tone of voice, “No, no, bushy-gushy, you’re not supposed to jump off the bed!”

Mr. Chinchy, in protest, squeaked and grunted and sneezed. The feeding-denier looked for a moment as if she was about to let him roam the bed again, but alas! He was being sent to the bondage of the CAGE again!

As he jumped off her hand and onto a shelf, it immediately registered to Mr. Chinchy that he should have a treat in consolation for his being subjected to the confining cage. He bit at the cage, yanked at the bars, squeaked and twitched his tail madly. When the hand did not respond, Mr. Chinchey thought it better to dig a moment and roll around. Surely that would show her how desperate he was—and while she was getting him a raisin or a yogurt treat, the hand might possibly think to provide his Majesty with a sufficient amount of dust to bathe in.

Oh, glorious dust! How sweet the grains that ran through his fur! That, if nothing else, could certainly not be denied him. The concept of having no dust drove him mad—it could simply not be. Mr. Chinchy must have dust!

The hand is gone. Now it is back again! Mr. Chinchy hops up to the closest corner of the cage to the hand, showing her how desperate he is. The hand seems to have had a change of attitude, and gives Mr. Chinchy a yogurt treat and dust! Huzzah! The day has not lost all hope—it has been partially won at least.