When last we broke off our chronicle, Stocky and I were just arriving in le Paree after after a wrong way, I mean a round-trip around the tres lovely French countryside. Due to an unfortunate series of misunderstandings, we boarded a train for le Lyon, which is a lovely area, don't get me wrong because I am not complaining at all about seeing le beautiful France. From there it was just about due west to wine-country and Bordeaux. On the way, Stocky thoroughly charmed the conductor, who rewarded Stocky with supplies of nuts for understanding French like a native.
Now here is where our luck changed because we got on the right train for Paree. However, Stocky seemed to want to stay out of Paree, or perhaps he missed his good friend the nut-dispensing conductor, but he went a little le crazy. Among other things, he tossed my underwear out the train windows, which was I am sure very entertaining for le spectators! But I was aghast at knowing some strangers were ogling my underpants, as I am sure you would be, too.
So then Stocky spent the next couple hours in the pen, in the coop, in the little Big House – his carrier, in other words. Which made me his warden. Oh he was very angry, rattling his tin cup against the bars and making such a racket that the new conductor came to see what was the matter. Imagine trying to explain that he was a hooligan who was being locked up for his own good and for MY sanity, in a language that is not your mother tongue... Well. Stocky was about due to come out of detention, anyway.
But no cookie for him.
However, one good thing came out of this leg of the trip that saved our bacon and paid our way to eventually buy a plan ticket home. And that was, that le Stocky, the star who was not interested in risking his life sky-diving or water-skiing, turned out to be le artiste.
The first time he made a drawing, we were in le dining car and Stocky drew on a napkin with what was at hand, le gravy, le jam, le jelly, dipping the end of his knife in each and making smears across the “canvas” he had appropriated.
So that became our ticket not to fame but to fortune-- at least enough euros to get from here to there.
Le waitress in le dining car became our first customer, letting us pay for le meal with le sketch. No funds passed hands in that instance, but it was penny saved is a penny earned kind of thing. She was a lovely girl from a small town thirty miles from Bordeaux who didn't want to work in le vineyards or in le bottling plant, so the charming redhead won a job on the rails so she could see some of the country.
Anyway, I found a pad of heavy paper that would serve to carry Stocky's artistic impressions, plus a brush and some watercolors, at the next train stop.
Whereupon I set Stocky to drawing in earnest, as he chattered all the while probably in French squirrel-talk to le conductor, to le waitress, to one and all at the train stops. Le Frenchies had been already charmed by his ability to understand le French but now they were doubly charmed by his sketches.
Art lovers all, they willingly parted with a euro or two to encourage a “starving artist” – no matter that the artiste had fur and very tiny paws to hold le brush with. You have to admit, the Frenchies are very open-minded in their definitions of art and artists. But thanks be for that, because every single one of his creations that he had dashed off in his squirrelly fashion sold within minutes. What a great country this is, hey?
So that meant of course that we could ride straight on through to not only Paree but thru the lovely le tunnel sous la Manche, aka the Chunnel, to London. Where just for kicks Stocky threw some more of my underpants out the window, probably just his squirrelly way of saying Hello There. Soovie keeps calling him the squirrelly kid, and he is squirrelly all right, not only does he eat nuts, he IS nuts nuts nuts.
But anyway, never mind that I am forced to go commando. Who cares when one is on one's way HOME blessed home, H-O-M-E as in home sweet home, as in I want to go home like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, who never gave up even when the Wicked Witch was after her.
Thank goodness we did not have any Flying Monkeys come after us. Although in those days when Stocky was drying out from the booze-drenched tour of the British Isles and France, who knows what nightmares he endured? Flying Monkeys, Pink Elephants, the whole menagerie probably visited him.
Anyway, we got to London. Did not get to have tea with Her lovely Royal Highness the Queen, natch, but we did stop for tea at a regular tea shoppe with a scone shared between me and that squirrelly kid. Where Stocky behaved himself, more or less, actually sitting at the le table and sticking out his pinky while drinking le proper tea in a proper tea shoppe.
So then it was on to le airport, le famous Heathrow airport. Where with all the euros from the sale of Stocky's artwork, we barely managed to buy a ticket for me. Stocky, sorry Soovie, is going as carry-on luggage.
So that is the latest installment in le saga of Stocky le squirrelly Squirrel, who dodged the evil Kara in Paree, who vanquished Minnie's underwear, who charmed millions well at least dozens all over France, who discovered his real talent and might become famous one day if you keep giving him paper and a brush, Soovie. So, we will be at an airport near you in a matter of hours, Soovie, so I hope you can pick us up from le airport and feed us your magnificent home cooking.