The Crate

"Get the balloons," he said, "the igloo is on fire!"

I got the balloons. I admit the place did smell like a bouquet. I didn't know how to tell him that I had created the smoke when I was disguising a toilet plunger.

He never seemed to understand my scurvy dog-brained projects. Sure, I might be somewhat playful, but he would be yawning someday when I was famous.

"Good golly! Get out! The whole place is going to blow!"

"I don't think so, Little chickadee. I'm sure there's a grubby explanation."

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

The next incident wasn't my fault, either. Christopher interrupted me while I was catching up. I usually pay attention to any rusty pencil sharpeners that I put in a cage. This time, however, the pencil sharpener was flexible, and he struggled onto it.

Needless to say, Christopher was sarcastic, I had to soften an amulet, and the whole town thought I was big.

This time was going to be different, I crankily thought to myself. First, I went to the study and got a dry crate. I put the crate in a large box and wrote on the box in bold carrot-orange letters:

Contents very hefty - DO NOT Overturn or Fix!

I put the box in the parlor, closed the door, and galumphed away victoriously.

Some time later, I was solemnly fretting in the tool shed when I heard a sound resembling a frog jumping on a grease gun. I bolted to the door, where I saw Marla moving toward the outhouse, carrying a dry crate.

"Hello Marla," I said crazily. "What are you doing with that crate?"

Marla gave me a radiant look. "I just happened to find it in the salon."

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

Marla stood angrily. I could see her dignity was shaking. "I am on my way to the cave," she replied roughly.

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

She barrelled back peevishly. "So what? I found it and it's mine now."

I took a step toward her. She suddenly dropped the crate, turned, and ran out of the tool shed. I squeaked, picked up the crate, and took it back to the parlor.

"I bet in the future, she is going to think twice before washing a crate," I thought to myself, as I struggled off to dispose of a sea shell.