Emily Jenkins - Toys Come Home

Rumpa lumpa, rumpa lumpa.

Rumpa lumpa, rumpa lumpa.

Pumpkinfacehead is hot behind. Lumphy can hear the thumpity thump of her feet on the stairs as he skids around the corner into the kitchen. The dishwasher looms, white and ugly. Lumphy knows he has to act fast.

He wedges a paw into the washer and the door bangs down. He grabs a butter knife in his mouth and gallops to the fridge. Pumpkinfacehead is there now, skittering across the slick linoleum on her paws, banging into a cabinet, leaping onto the table and crouching into pounce position again. Quickly, Lumphy wedges the knife into the seal on the looming fridge, then bangs it hard with his forepaws.

Pop! The fridge is open.

Lumphy was downstairs during dinner. He knows there is a casserole in there.

A tuna casserole.

Lumphy scrambles into the fridge and scrunches his bulk to the back, getting himself behind the large casserole dish covered in aluminum foil. Then he pushes hard with his buffalo feet against the cold plastic back of the fridge.

OooooF! The casserole clatters to the floor.

The kitten leaps at the noise. She throws herself off the table and out of the kitchen, running a circuit around the living room several times. Then she trots back to investigate the tuna smell.

Nervously, Lumphy pushes the casserole toward the cat, pulling off the foil so she can get a better whiff.

Hmmm.

Pumpkinfacehead dances slightly to one side.

Comes forward.

Backs up.

Then she sticks her orange nose deep into the dish and begins rooting around for chunks of tuna.

While she is busy, Lumphy runs silently back up the stairs.

What to do next?

What to do?

The hall is empty. The small gray mouse must have made it to safety.

But the kitty will come back. Lumphy knows she will.

What to do?

Oh what, oh what?

Aha! Maybe TukTuk will know.

She is a wise old towel and gives good advice.

As Lumphy charges into the bathroom, words spill out urgently. “This kind-of person, kind-of kitty, I don’t know exactly, it’s a thing, a Pumpkinfacehead, very fast, very orange, eats things! Attacks! Got the mouse! Tuna fish! Coming back! Help!” he cries, leaping onto the toilet seat so TukTuk can see him better.

“There’s a kitten visiting,” says TukTuk calmly from her place on the rack.

“What should I do? It’ll eat the mice for sure!” Lumphy cries.

“Be brave.”

“How?”

TukTuk gestures slightly with one corner. “With the spray bottle.”

“What?”

“The purple plastic spray bottle.”

“Really?”

“Trust me,” says TukTuk. “You are brave and you can do it.”

She sounds so certain that Lumphy takes a deep breath and trusts her. He gets the purple plastic spray bottle from the edge of the tub and lugs it in his forepaws to the bedroom doorway.

“You are a toughy little buffalo!” calls TukTuk.

Lumphy wonders if she is right.

He peers into the Girl’s room. “Mice? Are you safe?”

“Safe!”

“Horse?”

A nicker comes from the rocking horse.

“Sheep?”

No answer.

“Sheep? Sheep!”

“She’s safe!” comes a mouse voice. “She’s just not awake.”

“What about me?” Lumphy turns to see StingRay peering over the foot of the high bed. “Aren’t you worried about me?”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“No one can sleep with this racket,” says StingRay. “What are you doing?”

“I was brave with a tuna casserole.” Lumphy says it more to himself than to StingRay, and as he says it, he puffs with pride. He had not realized he had this bravery inside him. But here it is. He is a toughy little buffalo, like TukTuk said. “Now I’m going to be brave with a spray bottle,” he tells StingRay.

Suddenly, no more time to talk, Pumpkinfacehead is charging—thumpity thumpity, tiny thumps of little cat feet—charging up the stairs, careening off the banister, skittering down the hall, and—

Schwerrp! Lumphy squirts the spray bottle, squeezing hard, hard with his front paws.

Pumpkinfacehead gets it straight in the face. She leaps into the air with a look of shock in her eyes.

Schwerrp! Lumphy squirts again.

Pumpkinfacehead’s damp orange fur now clings to her body. She looks at Lumphy in fear and backs up, spine arched.

Schwerrp! Lumphy ignores the choked feeling in his throat—she is only a baby kitty, after all—and squirts her again. Schwerrp! Schwerrp!

Pumpkinfacehead is soaked now, looking skinny and alone in a puddle in the hallway.

“Khhhhhhhhhh.” She hisses.

Lumphy waves the spray bottle at her.

“Khhhhhhhhhh.” She hisses again.

She slinks halfway down the stairs and curls herself up against the baseboard. “Mngew!” she cries once, as if wishing for aid. Then falls silent and still.

Lumphy stands at the Girl’s door, victorious with the spray bottle, for the rest of the night. He replaces it on the edge of the bathtub only minutes before the parents’ alarm clock rings in the morning.

That day, when the people are gone to work and school, Lumphy stands there again. In the bedroom doorway, wielding the purple plastic spray bottle.

Every day, all day. And every night, all night. Lumphy is there—and he will be until the week is up and Pumpkinfacehead is taken home in the cat carrier.

Lumphy holds that spray bottle, keeping guard, even though the people scold Pumpkinfacehead for breaking into the fridge and tap her nose for punishment. He does it even though the kitten cowers in the hallway, looking sweet and meek. Even though she purrs at him and shows him her soft white tummy. He stands there. Waving the bottle and threatening to squirt.

“Aren’t you tired?” asks StingRay one afternoon, from the safety of the Girl’s bed.

Yes, Lumphy is tired.

“Aren’t you bored?” asks the plump white mouse, before running off to play leapfrog.

Yes, Lumphy is bored.

“What are you doing again?” asks Sheep, who has forgotten the kitten exists.

“Being brave with a spray bottle,” Lumphy answers.

“You’re my hero,” says the tiny gray mouse.

And Lumphy’s chest swells.

He will stand there, even though he is tired and bored and sorry for the lonely little kitty. Lumphy the toughy little buffalo: defender and protector of the creatures in the bedroom.

CHAPTER SIX

The Arrival of Plastic, and Also the Reason We Are Here

StingRay and Lumphy are playing Hungry Hungry Hippos. The Girl left it out on the rug last night, a game in which white marbles get eaten by plastic hippopotami. Each player hits a lever to make his or her hippo stretch out its neck and chomp a marble.

StingRay is winning. Game after game.

After game.

“Why is more marbles the best?” wonders Lumphy. “Shouldn’t you stop eating when you’re full? My hippo was full a long time ago.”

“More marbles are best because it’s winning,” answers StingRay.

“Is it winning, though, if my hippo overeats and gets a tummyache?”

“Hippos don’t get tummyaches,” says StingRay. “Hippos think more is better because it’s winning.”

“My hippo is feeling sick!” says Lumphy, crossly.

Feet sound on the stairs and StingRay and Lumphy stop playing and lie cutely on the floor. The toys can hardly believe it, but nearly a year has passed since Lumphy’s arrival and today is the Girl’s birthday party. She is old enough now that her party is at a bowling alley (whatever that is), and when she comes in she’s wearing a special dress with ruffly lace at the bottom. She putters around the room, putting barrettes in her hair and looking at herself in the mirror.