When Gilgamesh was a wee pup and having attacks of the crankypants for whatever reason (teething, being BORED TO DEATH, being overtired but refusing to sleep lest he miss something, etc.), I used to elaborately and obviously sneak up on him with a stuffed monkey someone gave him, chanting ominously: “you cannot resist the Monkey of Love” over and over. Then I’d attack him with it, resulting in inevitable wagging and giggling.
Sitting at my computer working and eating French toast this morning, Gilly maple-syrup-attentive and elegant and Anubis-like beside me, I realized that somehow, as he’s aged, things have changed.
He said, cool as a cucumber, if a bit ominously: “You cannot resist the Monkey of Love.”
And I couldn’t. The bite that was going to go into my mouth went into his, unquestioned.