At last, there is a giraffe in my bathroom.
One wouldn’t think it would fit. I have, after all, a very small bathroom—one that barely fits me, let alone me and a giraffe.
Me, a bunny, and a giraffe.
I met the giraffe at an art party last summer. Sioux and Aidan painted it together. I had to bring it home. It stands on one of those circus stands that elephants often stand on. I don’t think this is normal behavior for a giraffe.
Normal or not, I wanted that giraffe in my bathroom, black tongue and all.
You can’t see the black tongue.
Sunday we finally got it in there. There was a hammer involved. Sometimes one has to be firm with a giraffe.
There are other giraffes in my house, but not many. They are not usually obvious, but they will come out for a party. One lives on a coaster. Two are camouflaged in glassware: one on a beer mug, one on a shot glass. (Those two traveled all the way from Kenya with Alison just to be with me.) They do not like to come out when there is a hammer in sight. Even hammered people make them jittery.
The giraffe in my bathroom is learning to nose the faucets on and off. I’m happy for this show of independence, as it’s all I can do to keep up with feeding it 140 pounds of leaves and twigs each day. I have to keep up, though, to keep it out of the cotton balls, Q-tips, and tampons. Replacing those items can get really expensive.