Doggone A.M.

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS— (silence)

LIVINGROOM: BARK! BARK! BARK!

POPPA: What the—

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The dogs, mortal enemies in more normal circumstances, engage in gleeful cooperation by proceeding to take in their jaws the ends of his pajama pants and thrashing their head about in multiple directions. POPPA is divided between good humor and indignation.

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

POPPA: You fucking dogs!

PAJAMA PANTS: RRRRIP!

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS— (silence)

LIVINGROOM: BARK! BARK! BARK!

POPPA: Aw, damn it.

He stumbles into the kitchen through the shreds of his pajamas to investigate the mysterious behavior of the kettle.

LIVINGROOM: BARK! BARK! BARK!

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Her ringlets bounce happily the frame of her face, her toothy mouth babbling half-formed thoughts from a blue-shining gaze, her strong young toes precariously balancing on the edge of the stove mere inches from the incandescent heat of the burner and its hissing kettle, the answer to the mystery clutched in a fat little hand. A panicky POPPA, in his mad dash for her safety, is unbalanced by a natural tendency towards clumsiness masquerading as mortal horror and  trips upon the garbage can, spewing its noxious contents onto the floor, and  stumbling, skids across the room’s length on a piece of rancid cheese while he involuntarily engages in an inspired performance of the charleston until, finally giving up the cheese, he lands square on his back with a great big—

POPPA: WHOOMP!

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

BABY: WHEEEEE!

She dances in a paroxysm of limbs that is wont to children just learning to ambulate, does a remarkable unchildlike pirouette that POPPA fails to appreciate from his impoverished vantage position, and bends her knees, flexes bouncily, before hurtling herself onto now prone, half-conscious POPPA who catches her in his ample potbelly to emit a tortured—

POPPA: GAGGGHK!

—his legs sticking straight up with his arms before crashing to the linoleum, his stomach contracting to propel her giggling several feet into the air and she bounces for quite a while before she settles on his soft gelatin flesh to drop the wet dog whistle previously imprisoned within her hand onto his forehead and claps her hands on his cheeks to pull and ply the reddened skin like so much silly putty.

POPPA: (weakly) Honey… honey, could you please stop that?

KETTLE: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

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