2-year old Wesley was perched on the reading room loveseat watching some kids channel.
I had a jar of keto nut butter, and a spoon.
I plopped down on the left side, w jar & spoon.
At first it was some frantic epilepsy color-riot animation of bots & minions & butterflies.
Then it cooled down to a Cars cartoon episode with old beaters and thank god, a tractor. Phew!
The tractor, Maynard, exuded a calm onto the farmyard, playing kickball dog to sheep to tractor.
I’d been dipping my spoon deeper & deeper into the keto nut butter jar and slurping it off my little spoon.
Still watching the tractor, eyes straight ahead, silently, I sidelong offered the spoon to Wesley. Totally focused on Maynard, he took the spoon and slurped it down. A couple go-rounds of this.
Wesley turned towards me. Raised his index finger. Lifted an eyebrow. Not a word.
.
“Huh?”
I wondered.
.
“Oh”
Dot. Slowly. Connected.
.
I handed Wesley the jar.
He dipped his index finger in, came up lucky. Licked the keto nut butter, mostly, off.
Looked at his oily finger. Raised it to me. Frown. Distress.
At the foot of the loveseat, Black Scottie Wallis shows up.
Just. In. Time.
He looks up an eager first-responder.
I tap the leather seat. He lands light as Michael Jackson.
Wallis didn’t need the point I gave him. He went to work Lightning-McQueen quick. Seconds later Wesley shows me his clean-as-a-dog-whistle index finger.
We’re back in business.
I dipped again. Licked my finger. Handed back the jar.
This time with utter tranquility, Wesley, too, licked his finger clean.