R.I.P. Slicky

There comes a time in a boy's life when he must learn about loss.  These are good times to learn about that, but despite us showing Walt our 401(k) statement every month, he never seemed to grasp it like he did last week when, you guessed it, Slicky went missing.  This was a day we all knew was coming.  We've had many close calls, many trips across town and many janitors manipulated into granting access to closed buildings.  But Slicky has finally succumbed to the rigors of constant companionship to a four-year old.

I arrived  home from work one day last week to the always idyllic setting that is our kitchen in the early evening: Ginger pleasantly working on dinner in her pearls and heels and Walt drawing would-be masterpieces at his little craft desk at her feet.  But I knew it was all a delicate charade with the first glance from my wife.  "What's wrong?" I said.  "S-L-I-C-K-Y is M.I.A." she said cryptically.  Uh-oh.  

We skated the thin ice well enough that evening, and I made an unannounced visit to school first thing the next morning since it was an off day.  The APB was issued and all trash cans were examined, as was the giant plastic hippo on the playground where it was said Walt was "hanging out" the day before during recess.  Nothing. 

 (As an aside, a couple of points about Harry the Hippo: 1. I know where all of that tuition money is going.  $679 for a giant plastic hippopotamus? 2.  Harry's internal organs are labeled . . . in English, Spanish and French.  Really?  Talk about specialized knowledge: the Spanish word for "hippo gall bladder.") 

Anyway, Slicky no esta en Harry.

We muddled through another bedtime, but after I got to work last Friday morning, I got the following email from Ginger:

"The reality of Slicky's absence set in this morning.  Rough time.  We both cried."

After brushing back a small tear of my own, my protection instinct shifted immediately into high gear resulting in phone calls to high powered lawyers and other contacts amassed during my almost ten years of legal practice in this city, contacts usually reserved for the most dire of circumstances like impending life sentences and escaping jury duty.  

We had a replacement by lunchtime.  

Some photos:

Acting on some sort of premonition, Ginger recently staged a Slicky/Walt photo shoot.

Poor Slicky never had a chance of avoiding the trash can once she was spotted by any self-respecting janitor.

R.I.P., Slicky.  You were a good lovie.

Attention readers at the Center for Disease Control: we promise she's really gone and no longer in frequent contact with people.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present New Slicky.  Special thanks to Autumn Chastain and the folks at Mango Street Baby for the damage control.  Let's just hope he loses it before freshman year of college.