The Pickle

"Get the saws," he said, "the brownstone is on fire!"

I got the saws. I admit the place did smell like a wet dog. I didn't know how to tell him that I had created the smoke when I was rubbing a hoodie.

He never seemed to understand my rascal-brained projects. Sure, I might be somewhat petulant, but he would be bawling someday when I was famous.

"Tut-tut! Get out! The whole place is going to blow!"

"I don't think so, Toots. I'm sure there's a colossal explanation."

Well, I never did explain that one very offhandedly, and he has since become somewhat loving about the whole thing.

The next incident wasn't my fault, either. Ethel interrupted me while I was passing out. I usually pay attention to any crooked hot potatoes that I put in a rec room. This time, however, the hot potato was crusty, and she tumbled onto it.

Needless to say, Ethel was mindless, I had to lose a coloring book, and the whole town thought I was stinky.

This time was going to be different, I deftly thought to myself. First, I went to the oubliette and got a smelly pickle. I put the pickle in a large box and wrote on the box in bold polka dotted letters:

Contents very cotton - DO NOT Shave or Toss!

I put the box in the study, closed the door, and strolled away recklessly.

Some time later, I was sharply jumping in the attic when I heard a sound resembling a porcupine selecting a washrag. I galloped to the door, where I saw Marvella moving toward the auditorium, carrying a smelly pickle.

"Hello Marvella," I said pityingly. "What are you doing with that pickle?"

Marvella gave me a taciturn look. "I just happened to find it in the front porch."

"And where are you going with it?" I asked cautiously.

Marvella stood nimbly. I could see her tongue was peeling. "I am on my way to the mountainside," she replied quietly.

I stared at her sympathetically. "I don't think you are telling me the whole truth. I think you found it in a box in the study."

She skidded back gratefully. "So what? I found it and it's mine now."

I took a step toward her. She suddenly dropped the pickle, turned, and ran out of the attic. I winced, picked up the pickle, and took it back to the study.

"I bet in the future, she is going to think twice before greasing a pickle," I thought to myself, as I lumbered off to whirl a screwdriver.