Emily Jenkins - Being the Adventures of a Knowledgeable Stingray, a Toughy Little Buffalo, and Someone Called Plastic

“Wurrffle wummpffle!”

“What? Sorry,” says the sheep. “It’s my ear. I’ve lost it.”

“Wurrffle wummpffle purrmple!”

Sheep doesn’t understand. She is distracted by the tasty-looking lace of the soccer shoe. It’s not grass, and it’s not clover, but it looks pretty chewable to the sheep.

She settles down next to the shoe and has herself a lovely munch, pulling the lace out bit by bit. She hears a Wurrffle Wummmpffle noise, and it’s irritating, but she doesn’t let it bother her. Pretty soon the sound quiets down to nothing.

When she is done chewing the lace, Sheep is mildly surprised to find herself in the closet. She burps and goes out to play pick-up sticks with the toy mice.

… …

Two hours later, Lumphy (who fell asleep wedged in the dampness of the soccer shoe) wakes up to find he can lift his head. The lace has been chewed into fourteen small pieces, and without it, the shoe flops open. Lumphy waggles his shoulders and stands up. Then he steps gingerly out, and creeps into the bedroom to find the one-eared sheep dozing on the rug.

“Thanks,” he whispers, nuzzling her woolly face. “You’re a true friend.”

Sheep has no idea what he is talking about.

Just then, the Little Girl rolls over and makes a mumbly noise. She is waking up!

Rumpa lumpa, rumpa lumpa—Lumphy gallops at top speed and dives behind the rocking horse in the corner.

The Girl stands and puts on her clothes. Then she begins looking around—under the bed, behind the bookshelf, even in the back of the closet, where Lumphy used to be hiding!

She’s searching the room as if she’s lost something, rooting through the toy shelf, tossing whirly tops and colored markers and board games and mice every which way.

Then Lumphy hears a sad sound. He has heard it before, but not often. The Little Girl is crying. “He’s not here!” she wails. “I need him!”

Lumphy peeks through the legs of the rocking horse so he can see the Girl’s face. Her cheeks are wet.

“Lumphy, Lumphy!” The Girl throws herself on the bed, buries her face in the pillow, and weeps.

She misses me, Lumphy realizes. She thinks I’m gone forever.

The idea had never occurred to him.

He rushes out from behind the horse.

Ag! He remembers the washing machine and runs back behind the horse’s legs.

Ag! The Little Girl is crying! Out again.

Ag! The washer. Back behind the legs.

Crying!

Out.

Washer!

Back.

Cry!

Wash!

Out!

Back!

Ag!

Lumphy cannot stand it anymore. He loves the Little Girl and he hates to make her cry. So although he is desperately afraid of the washing machine—and of the deep, dark basement with its ghosts, and rats, and axe murderers—he creeps out from behind the horse while the Little Girl is sobbing into her pillow.

Quietly, Lumphy tips over one of the green rubber boots sitting near the foot of the bed. Then he lies down (very cleverly) right in front of the boot, as if he’d been shoved down in there and only spilled out when the boot tipped over.

When the Girl stops crying and looks around for a tissue, she sees Lumphy lying there. She picks him up and kisses him all over his peanut-buttery face, squeezing him until he thinks his buffalo teeth might fall out. “Lumphy!” she cries. “You were in my boot!” She pets his head. “How did you get in my boot, you sweetie sweetie?”

For a moment, life is wonderful. Lumphy is happy.

Then the Girl smells him.

“You stink like peanut butter,” she says. “And you’re greasy. But don’t worry, Lumphy. I know just what to do about that. ”

… …

The basement is dark, except for a single dim lightbulb shining in the ceiling. There are cardboard boxes piled up high, and a tremendous amount of dust, just like StingRay said there would be. Lumphy can’t see any ghosts or rats or axe murderers, but he is sure they are there, hiding in the corners, ready to pop out and scare a buffalo at any moment.

The Little Girl left him sitting in a laundry hamper. She’s gone to ask for help with the soap. Next to the hamper, the Washing Machine looms, towering in all its metal whiteness and terrifying bigness. Lumphy shuts his eyes and tries not to ponder it.

But he ponders it anyway.

He could scramble out of the hamper, he thinks, and hide himself in a corner.

But no, there might be a ghost there.

And the Little Girl would miss him.

He could try to climb the stairs, but he is not sure he can make it. And even if he got to the top, the Girl would just find him on the floor and wash him anyway.

“I am a greasy buffalo,” he says to himself, because it sounds tough. But he doesn’t feel much better, and shuts his eyes to block out the sight of the big Machine.

“Quiet, are you?” says a friendly voice. “Shoot. I was hoping for some company.”

Lumphy opens one eye. “Who’s talking?”

“Me, Frank,” says the voice. “Who else would it be?”

“Frank?”

“The washer,” says the Washing Machine.

Lumphy opens his other eye. The Machine isn’t moving, but it is certainly making conversation. “I didn’t expect you to talk,” says Lumphy in a small voice.

“No one ever does. It’s a lonely life,” says Frank. “Just me and a dryer that never has anything interesting to say.”

“Hmmmp,” rumbles the Dryer, a large brown contraption sitting next to Frank.

“Well, you don’t, do you?” says Frank testily.

“Ummmph,” says the Dryer.

“This is how it is, all day,” complains Frank. “She’s never any fun. What’s that on you—applesauce?”

“Peanut butter.”

“Don’t worry, I can fix you right up. Peanut butter is no problem. Done it tons of times before.”

“It’s very greasy.”

“I’m an excellent washing machine. Top of my game, not that anyone really notices.”

“TukTuk never told me about you,” says Lumphy, standing up on his hind legs to peep over the edge of the laundry basket at Frank.

“What is TukTuk?”

“A towel. A yellow one, with frayed edges.”

“I think I’ve seen her around.”

“Ummmrgh,” complains the Dryer.

“Exactly,” says Frank. “Those towels are stuck-up. None of them ever says a word to either one of us. It’s like they think they’re so popular.”

“Do you talk to them ?” asks Lumphy.

“Oh, they’re busy amongst themselves,” says Frank. “I can’t get a word in edgewise, not that they’d pay me any mind.”

“TukTuk is beautiful,” says Lumphy, who is very loyal.

“Pretty is as pretty does, that’s what I say.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know you talk?”

Frank had never thought of that.

“If you don’t talk to her, I bet she doesn’t know,” says Lumphy, feeling helpful.

… …

The Little Girl’s father puts Lumphy into Frank’s washtub, adds a sprinkling of powdered soap, and presses a button. Warm water pours in. The tub is rumbling.

“Frank!” yells Lumphy, anxious to be heard above the din. “I don’t feel good. Will you stop, please?”

“Can’t stop,” says Frank importantly. “It’s a cycle.”

“I feel sick!”

“What a cycle means,” explains Frank, “is that I have to see it through to the end.” “How long does it last?”

“Twenty-two minutes. Agitation, rinse, second rinse, and spin. You have nineteen minutes left.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” moans Lumphy, as the water sloshes him back and forth.

“Think of it like a dance,” says Frank. “Then maybe you won’t feel sick.”