The rain is falling on the just and the unjust, but not on us. We have finished the major, urgent tasks that needed accomplishing, and are snuggling in the living room with books and a fire, feeling smug and eating pastries. Very nice.
Othello is killing alien fiends on one computer, I am fiddling on this one in preparation for writing, Bridgette is looking through gardening books and dreaming. After a time, she lets out a strident, “Hm,” the sort intended to act as a cue for others in earshot to pay attention and ask what she’s thinking.
Othello is a courteous sort, so, “What?”
“Nothing. Just pondering.”
All of us here are Pinky & The Brain fans, so I kicked in with, “I think so, Brain, but how will we get enough ink to tattoo an entire hippopotamus?” which made Bridgette grin and Othello break, leaning against his screen to giggle. He stopped laughing, suddenly, sitting up with purpose gleaming from his eye.
“Oh. That. I have to do that. I have to tattoo a hippo, because that would just…be cool.”
We discussed it a bit, and agreed that hearts sporting the motto “Mom” or anchors with ribbons bearing ship names would just be tacky. Tribal tatts, that was the way to go, blending in on the sides of the animal with a design of multicolored flames blowing back over the flanks of the hippo. Maybe a racing stripe. We settled back and admired the decorated hippo in our shared mind’s eye.
Bridgette mistook this reverie for the planning stages of a hippo kidnapping. “You two. You two are not allowed to tattoo hippos.” This new marvel before us, we enjoyed the fact that we actually had to be told not to tattoo hippopotami, and that we had been so told.
“You know,” I said, “nobody makes a list or anything, but somewhere, in the back of your mind, when you wake up in the morning, you know that there are certain things that you are just not going to hear. ‘Don’t tattoo any hippos.'”
Othello nodded, lips pursed solemnly. “Other people must be very disappointed.”