Last week the Mensan flew in from DC and joined the parents of my grandchildren to drive to Anaheim for their annual Halloween Dinnyland week. In your mind, Halloween may be a one-day event, but not for Walt’s wonderworkers; it’s a month long gala.

The grandmother and I “couldn’t “ go this year, as someone had to take care of Fluffy, the grand-gecko. No small responsibility, he. Restrictions and caveats flowed like the muddy waters of the Amazon. First came three e-mailed pages of directives, including the proper care and feeding of crickets and millworms. Who’d have guessed fresh crickets (about a two day shelf life and six cents apiece) have to be put into a baggy and shaken into a protein powder, before being dumped into the lair of the Fluffster? Who would have known about keeping millworms in the refrigerator, semi-comatose until the day of their denouement, when you let them thaw a bit before spooning them (plastic, disposable spoon) into a special Millworm Enclosure?

The worms in the refrigerator were a tough sell.

Parts of the three pages were quite nice, such as “His favorite bedtime story is “Goodnight Moon” which sometimes must be read through twice, to calm him if the crickets have been rowdy.” The wind wasn’t blowing very hard the day that acorn fell from the tree.
Nearing the transfer date, and on one of the two or three times weekly we’re at my grandchildren’s house, when The Tall One comes home from work, I suggested that I may as well take possession of the Fluffinator now, save a trip, all that.
“No. I’d rather bring him over myself, just to . . . be sure.”

That stung, a bit.

So the Tall One brought Fluffy over, ok’d his accommodations, reviewed the rules, adding “And here is some special sun block to use twice a day.” Then a shriek of laughter, a doubling over of an overly long body in giggles, “If you could have seen your face, pops!”