Chooch. Sweet, little, fucking weird Chooch. This morning, he and I were sitting together on the couch. Everything was fine, tranquil. I was reading a book and paying marginal attention in case Chooch decided to crack his cranium or turn his nose into a blood hydrant.
In the middle of watching "Blue’s Clues," some kind of emotional duress struck him and he turned to look at me with his face all seized up in his signature scowl. His eyes flickered down to my leg and he grabbed onto my jeans with shockingly strong curled fingers. Unable to find the words he was looking for, he relied on primordial grunting to convey his frustration.
The tugging got more violent and urgent by the second as he grew agitated by my inability to translate his grunts.
"Am I wearing the wrong jeans?" I asked irritably. "Do you prefer Apple Bottoms?"
Looking thoroughly disgusted (I know I’m going to be his first victim when he turns serial), he slid off the couch and walked to the other side. I was sitting pretty flush with the arm of it, but he forced himself in, creating a tiny human wedge. I moved over to the right so he could sit properly and not on his side like he was, and the grunting stopped. He rearranged his blanket so it was horse-shoeing around his waist, grabbed his bowl of snow (which he eats by using a small toy car to spoon heaping snowballs into his mouth), and laughed at me.
"That was it? You didn’t want me sitting on the left side of the couch?" He laughed even more deviously.
I called Henry and recounted the events to him. "Were you sitting on the left side?" he asked. When I confirmed, he feigned a grave tone and said, "Oh, he doesn’t like that at all. It’s his new thing."
We tried to offer him as part of our down payment on the car today, but it didn’t work.