And They Called It Puppy Love ...or, how I stopped worrying and learned to embrace the haunted toy
A few weeks after she came home, we stopped separating the cats from Simone when we deduced the tiny killing machines were largely
indifferent to our new noisy bundle of poop. They would venture close, sniff and walk away. They were a lot more clear about Scout, a green and white stuffed puppy with buttons on each paw for music, games and interaction given to us as a gift no less than three times by friends and family. After connecting the toy to the computer and downloading amysteriously large program, you could program it to say your child' name, her favorite color, food and any of a short list of songs. It offered music and games and cuddly fun for infants on up.
The cats, of course, peed on it.
We had mixed feelings about that:
- ANGER: We should punish them. Which one? Should we rub their noses in it or just force them to listen to a song about bananas?
- BEFUDDLEMENT: How do you clean it? Would that give the cats carte blanche to do it again?
- RELIEF: No more hearing, "Hi..." [brief pause from the
Exorcist-esque voice] "...Simone!"
- GUILT: Should we have cleaned the litter boxes more? Cordoned the cats? Programmed Scout with their names instead?
- FEAR: What about the other two creepy toys? Were they planning revenge?
In the end, like a lot of things in those early, sleepless months we
stuck it in a plastic bag and tried to wish it away. When that didn't
work, we threw it out and returned the other one, remembering
afterwards the third one, also in a wished-away plastic bag but
located in a less convenient corner of the room.
The cats had not peed on this one. Maybe they were telling me something.
I gave it another shot. Simone was larger and starting to enjoy
buttons and noises and we were less paranoid about her smothering
herself in soft things, so I hooked it up to the computer and fired it
up. I figured the worst that could happen was that she would destroy
it with the buckets of drool her mouth produced every hour.
It was a hit. Lacking the ear for linguistic subtleties, and never
having seen the movie Magic or any of its derivatives, Simone was
not afraid. She mashed buttons with glee. At bedtime, music drifted
from her crib as we crept toward the door, the sliver of light
illuminating her delighted face as our little monster cuddled with her
littler monster. Even better, "Puppy," as she called it, lay next to
her in the morning, an opportunity just crying out to press buttons
instead of wail for parental attention. Were we bad parents for
treating our daughter's toy like a stuffed snooze button? We don't
care! We've already gone through the emotional ringer! [See above.] If Simone loved it, then so would we.
Now if only we could do something about those cats.
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