I forgot to water my pumpkins this morning, thought Pablo, I wonder what the temperature is today?
The zoo is open until dusk, thought Harlan, and the elephant cage is right by the entrance.
I wonder, thought Ditto, if Dustin Pedroia ever played rightfield?
Ditto’s birthday is tomorrow, thought Bonny, I hope the Dustin Pedroia jersey isn’t too small.
The team is really focused today, thought Alex, the championship is as good as won.
Wow, thought Blurtso, today’s game decides the championship. I’ve never been a champion. I set a record in the ski jump, but was disqualified for being a donkey. That was a relief, because the paparazzi went away. There aren’t any paparazzi here. Or any fans. I guess they’re all at home, listening on the radio. I wonder who’s doing the broadcast? I’ll bet it’s Jerry Remy. I wonder if Jerry Remy played stickball? He grew up in Somerset, so he probably played baseball, on real grass. That would be distracting, playing on grass. As distracting as playing in a pumpkin pie factory. You don’t see many sporting events in pie factories, for just that reason. I wonder if the winners get a trophy? I’d love to have a trophy, tall and shiny, with an action figure on top. Maybe a donkey taking a Ruthian sing, or a donkey making an over-the-shoulder catch, or a donkey gunning down a runner from third. A trophy would look great in the barn, with a little straw around the base. I wonder if being a champion would go to my head? I wonder if I’d begin to stay out late, and go to nightclubs, and get in trouble with the law? The paparazzi would revel in my fall, encouraging the cracks in my character. And I have many cracks. I’m not a role model. I have too many vices… pumpkin pie, hot cocoa, whipped cream. I wouldn’t want anyone to imitate me. I would be a terrible champion. But I sure would like a trophy, tall and shiny, in the middle of the barn.
Great game! said Alex. We’re 9-2. Only a game out of first!
We should play stickball tomorrow, said Alex. Stickball? said Blurtso. Stickball, said Harlan, is the street version of baseball. Yes, said Alex, some of the greatest players in history played stickball… they say Willie Mays was a 4-sewer hitter. A 4-sewer hitter? said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex, he could hit the ball four sewer manholes from the plate. Really? said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex. That’s remarkable, said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex. What’s a manhole? said Blurtso.
It sure is warm in here, said Harlan. It sure is, said Blurtso. That’s because a greenhouse, said Alex, turns solar energy into thermal energy, which in turn creates a convection process. What? said Blurtso. Solar energy, said Alex, passes through the glass and gets absorbed by the ground and plants. The plants convert the sun’s short wave infrared rays into long wave infrared rays—into heat energy—which can’t escape the glass. Because the air is trapped, the warm air near the ground rises and the cool air near the ceiling falls, turning the greenhouse into a convection oven which forces the air to become warmer and warmer with each rise and fall. A convection oven? Said Blurtso. Exactly, said Alex. Does that work on a small scale? said Blurtso. Of course it does, said Alex. So I could bake a pumpkin pie, said Blurtso, in a miniature greenhouse?
Your greenhouse was all we talked about today in class, said Harlan. Really? said Blurtso. Yes, said Harlan, the professor gave us an article to read about Degrowth Theory. Degrowth theory? said Alex, isn’t that an oxymoron? An oxymoron? said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex, a concept that is made up of contradictory or incongruous elements; growth implies increase, “de” implies the opposite, so you might as well say decrease. The professor explained that, said Harlan, he said the word implies the increase of communities choosing to decrease their consumption, a world where more people choose to live a simpler lifestyle. What does that have to do with my greenhouse? said Blurtso. Your greenhouse, said Harlan, is a local, self-sustaining environment, you could live forever in this greenhouse if you chose to. Except, said Blurtso, for pumpkin pies. You could grow pumpkins, said Harlan. How would I cook them? You’d have to plant some fast-growing trees, said Harlan, and use the wood for fire. Or use solar energy, said Alex. Isn’t it hard to grow solar panels? said Blurtso. It’s impossible, said Harlan, but you could trade with others in the community who had what you need, and eventually reduce the size of your environmental hoofprint. My environmental hoofprint? said Blurtso, I don’t think my hoofs are too big.
Where are the reporters, said Alex, and the paparazzi? They’re gone, said Blurtso. Why? said Alex. Because the Olympic Committee disqualified my jump. Why? said Alex. Because I jumped on four hooves, said Blurtso, and they said the binding attaching my front hooves to the skis made it easier to keep my tips up, which gave me greater lift, and resulted in the world record. And I was also disqualified because I’m a donkey. Well, said Alex, don’t feel too bad, the Olympic Committee didn’t allow women to ski jump in the Olympics until 2014. What?! said Blurtso. Yes, said Alex. That’s shameless discrimination, said Blurtso, do you think they’ll ever let donkeys jump? No, said Alex, but if they do, the story of your record will be a great inspiration. Really? said Blurtso. Sure, said Alex, you’re a pioneer. Wow, said Blurtso, like Babe the blue ox!
Blurtso? said Alex. Hmm? said Blurtso. Why are you hiding? Because of the people, said Blurtso. The TV trucks? said Alex, and reporters and paparazzi and helicopters? Yes, said Blurtso. Why are they here? said Alex. I competed in my first meet today, said Blurtso. And? said Alex. And I jumped 276 meters, said Blurtso. So? said Alex. It was a new world record. Oh, said Alex.
Harlan said you went skiing, said Alex. Yes, said Blurtso, and the strangest thing happened. What? said Alex. I was invited to join the ski team. Really? said Alex. In what event? In the ski jump, said Blurtso. Today is my first practice.
You want me to do what?
What’s that you’ve been writing? said Alex. It’s a collection of poems, said Blurtso. A collection? said Alex. Yes, said Blurtso, for Lizzy. I’m calling it, Graham Cracker Crumbs. Why? said Alex. Because when I see her pass, said Blurtso, and then she’s gone, I feel as empty as an empty pie tin. Oh, said Alex, and the poems are the crumbs that remain? Yes, said Blurtso, the remnants of my lost rapture. Can I hear one? said Alex. Sure, said Blurtso, this is about the time I saw her limping across campus. I call it, “O my love limps so!”
“O my love limps so!
“The birds were sweetly chirping
and the grass was growing green,
as I waited on my bench
for the jenny of my dreams.
While the shadows slowly passed,
not a vision did I spy,
‘til suddenly across the grass,
a limping caught my eye.
My love is sorely stricken,
she’s suff’ring and distressed!
Her left rear hoof is lagging,
is lagging behind the rest!
Oh lovely injured unguis!
Oh tender cloven pes!
Of late so sweet enticing,
now dragging on the grass.
Oh ass! Oh hoof! Oh ankle
so twisted and exposed!
The pain that’s in your heel
pricks the loving heart that knows!
That’s very good, said Alex, but what’s an “unguis”? “Unguis,” said Blurtso, is the Latin word for hoof. What about “pes”? said Alex. “Pes” is the Latin word for foot. Oh, said Alex, I guess Latin’s not very poetic. No, said Blurtso, I guess not.