Clare OpEd: The Black Box

I like the food lady…oh that’s right. I’m supposed to call her “Moooooommy” now.

She feeds me and scratches my back and plays house with me and reads to me and sings all my favorite songs and generally doesn’t bother me to much although she tends to scream at me when I touch that hot box in the kitchen or when I try to climb the stairs by myself or when she makes me sit in the “bad-bad” chair or when she takes the remotes away from me. (It takes me forever to find those things and then she just snatches them out of my hand and points to something archaic on the floor. )


But the thing that really gets to me about the food lady, I mean Mooooooooommy, is when she points that stupid black box at me. You know. The one with the really weird eye-ball on the front and the flashing lights.

She puts it in front of her face and starts laughing and making weird noises and, as far as I can tell, for no reason at all.

I’ve realized though that if I stay really still she stops faster.

When my manual dexterity and arm strength improve I’m going to get one of those things and point it at HER and see how SHE likes it.

Oh…I also have to discern what the word, “SMILE” means. Smile…smile…it sounds like a type of cheese.

Oops. More screaming. I’m not supposed to touch this box either.

I’m out.




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