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Nichole and I carved a pumpkin Sunday night. We used a pattern she found online and printed out, and brought to bear an authoritatively-priced ($1.29) “Pumpkin Carving Kit” obtained at our local Publix. Coming off of last year’s first place at Allen U’s “Pimp My Pumpkin” party, we think-felt-knew that no pumpkin would be able to withstand our combined onslaught of steak knives and plastic doohickeys.

We rocked. We were well-oiled machinery. Jack stood no chance, no escape from the inevitability of his anaesthetic-free lobotomy. Even unexpected roadblocks that would have thwarted lesser pumpkin artistes fell before us with no resistance whatsoever:

N: There’s no punchy-roller tool thingy in the kit (!!) to punch through the pattern and create “stencil dots” on the pumpkin!! R: No problem — we can use a fork! <audience cheers>

As icing on the familyness of the whole event, the dogs liked pumpkin meat, so they were able to contribute in their own doggie way (which usually involves chewing, eating, or excreting). After much hacking, slicing, scooping, and scraping, the fruits of our hour-long labor were finally realized, and we stepped back to admire the finished product with no small amount of satisfaction and pride in a job well done. “Boo!” said Pumpkin-Cat. And it was gourd good.

Ye old pumpkin was positioned on the floor of the kitchen where a suitably dramatic backdrop was readily available albeit entirely unnecessary, requisite candle was installed and ignited, the lights were doused, and a hush fell over the crowd. Basking in the glow of expertise reaffirmed, we set out to our regular tasks of the evening: feeding and bathing the Audrometer, defending small Amazonian villages against hordes of man-eating army ants with only a glass of water and an iron will, and so on.

Then the following day, Monday: disaster.

After the victory photo shoot the previous evening, we had left Pumpkin-Cat on the floor. Nichole was attending to the full-time job that is stay-at-home motherhood when she discovered that the dogs had — great Odin’s raven! — eaten dear old Jack. Eaten him! Well, at least part of him.

The primary suspect was easily identified by her sudden resemblance to a midweight sumo wrestler and her bevy of pumpkin-scented burps: Zoe, busted. No real surprise there, as finding new and creative ways to be bad is Zoe’s job — or so she seems to think. Our masticated masterpiece was relegated to the front porch, and Zoe was relegated to the back yard so as to …process her pumpkin in the proper place.

Remember kids, in your continuing pursuit of excellence, no matter how you may dominate your chosen field, no matter how you may glide effortlessly above the futile toils of your would-be competitors: a small dog with a large appetite might just bring you back to earth faster than you can say, “Hot pot of coffee!” It’s a tough world — all the more so if you happen to be a pumpkin.

Or the grass in our back yard.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 24th, 2006 at 1:25:32 am and is filed under Pictures, Foam, Fam. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.