Bub is a pale little nugget. This makes sense, seeing as how his father was once mistaken for a giant manila folder and his mother until last week thought bronzer was some sort of crude medieval weapon.
Hey, there are beach people, and then there are the Pales. Me? I never really got the beach, sunbathing, all of it. I can get a sunburn just walking to the beach; I don’t need to strongly encourage one by lying directly in the sun’s wrath. I get bored at the beach, prefer a good, shaded lawn game or just plain old A/C. But this is coming from a Pale, mind you. A Pale who begat a miniature Pale and forced him to wear a hat on his pale little head whilst out-of-doors. And this is where our story begins.
It was technically a swimming hat, Speedo. Aqua blue, in the event your wanted your head to be completely invisible in the pool. Nothing fancy, but name brand, breathable, functional. Cute, even. He hated that hat. I’m pretty sure this was the motive in this senseless crime.
I’m not sure where the beef between Bub and Speedo started. They seemed to get along as well as could be expected for a couple months. An outsider might have mistaken them for old friends. But it turned out to be nothing more than a clever ruse to lull Speedo into a false sense of security so Bub might strike when it was least expected. That turned out to be on a crowded bike path under cover of the long summer shadows.
Details are shockingly vivid, the evidence clear cut. The three of us were out for a run (Bub wasn’t running—that would be some sort of record) and he had taken the hat off his head, fine, used to it, adjusted the canopy, no biggie. We continued with our split. He held it, played with it for a few minutes; though we now know what he was actually doing was saying goodbye in his own way.
Somewhere shortly after Montrose I looked down and the hat was gone. Poof. I assumed it got wedged; I mean, I was captaining this running vessel and saw nothing thrown overboard. Bub doesn’t have much of an arm, either, so that hardly seemed like the most probable scenario.
We came to our turnaround and walked for a minute. Bub was asleep (or was he?), and I dug around the stroller seat and the hat was nowhere to be found. Okay, no problem, we’ll just retrace our steps—surely it will catch one of our four eyes—it’s aqua blue! Nope, nada. Disappeared quicker than myself in an epic game of Hide and Seek at White Sands National Park. And as we all know from C.S.I., without a hat, there is no crime. Despite our firsthand eyewitness accounts and sworn statements, it would be our word against his. And he wouldn’t talk. Couldn’t, in fact.
Fast forward a week or so. Going lidless not being an option, we started our scalp protection campaign anew with a chic, orange fisherman-style hat. A few days later, I kid you not, I found that very hat tucked neatly away in our recycling bin.
Well played, Bub. Especially considering the bin is outside the perpetually locked back door off the sun porch. The logistics of this caper were daunting to say the least; he clearly had an accomplice. At least he was eco-conscious in his treachery. I respect you, friend, and I foil you.
Two days ago we walked to the store. Hat secured as we left, check. Hat on when we got a block away? Not so much. And while my observational powers failed to detect him once again chucking a brightly-colored object from a carriage less than a yard directly in front of my person, I did notice it wasn’t on his head. It was fifty feet behind us, on the sidewalk, sitting there in a pile of shun.
Bub was noticeably unfettered in the face of my amateurish parental scolding. He clapped, in fact (we’re still working on the timing of that one). But I’m happy to report that the hat did in fact survive the remainder of the summer, as did his fair skin. It’s like they say—all’s fair in love and headgear.