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

“But there’s no music.” So Frank begins to sing:

“Shuffle-o

Shuffle-o

Greasy little

Buffalo

Tough-y little buffle-y

Dance that buffalo shuffle with me! Dance, dance, prance, prance

Dance that buffalo shuffle with me!”

Lumphy likes the idea of a buffalo shuffle. He does feel queasy during the agitation, but Frank keeps singing as Lumphy sloshes around, and by the first rinse cycle—when the clean, cool water pours in to wash the soap and peanut butter away—the buffalo is starting to enjoy himself. “Dance, dance, prance, prance!” he sings along with Frank, waggling his tail and clapping his front paws together.

By the second rinse he is kicking up his back legs and yelling “tough-y little buffle-y” as loud as he can yell. And when the spin cycle arrives, he forgets completely that spinning makes his stomach feel funny. “Wheeeee!” cries Lumphy. “Look at meeeeee!”

Then the wash is over. The Girl’s father pulls him out to go hang on a clothesline in the open air.

“Goodbye, Frank!” Lumphy calls as the basement door shuts. “You have a wonderful singing voice.”

“Thank you!” calls Frank. “It’s nice to have someone appreciate it.”

“Urrgmh,” says the Dryer.

… …

Lumphy goes on another picnic the next weekend. Same pond, same sandwiches. It doesn’t look like rain, though, so his chances of going home in the picnic basket are slim.

When the Little Girl and her father are feeding the ducks, and Lumphy knows they aren’t looking, he (very cleverly) unscrews the lid of the jam jar and dips his nose and forefeet into the apricot goo.

“I am a sticky buffalo,” he says to himself. “And when I get home, I am going to visit Frank.”

Sitting there in the sunshine on the picnic blanket, he begins to sing:

“Shuffle-o

Shuffle-o Sticky little

Buffalo

Tough-y little buffle-y

Dance that buffalo shuffle with me!

Dance, dance, prance, prance

Dance that buffalo shuffle with me!”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Possible Shark

Plastic is going to the beach. The Little Girl told her specially this morning, and she is excited—though not sure what to expect.

“Stingrays know all about the beach. Would you like me to tell you?” asks StingRay. She and Plastic are playing checkers.

Plastic says Yes.

“The main thing is bigness. The ocean goes on and on forever.”

“Is there clover?” asks the one-eared sheep, who is watching the game with Lumphy.

“No clover,” says StingRay, moving red.

“Grass?”

“No. It’s the ocean.”

“Oh, well.” Sheep goes back to watching.

“Is it bigger than the pond?” asks Plastic, moving black across the board.

“A zillion times bigger,” answers StingRay.

“I can’t wait!” cries Plastic, and hums a happy hum. “Beach beach beach!”

For a second, StingRay is quiet. She is wondering why she isn’t going to the beach with Plastic. Or even instead of Plastic—who after all has only lived with the Little Girl since last September. “You won’t like it,” StingRay says, finally, hopping red over one of Plastic’s black checkers.

“Yes I will. Beach!” yells Plastic. “No you won’t,” StingRay repeats. “The water goes down further than anybody can see. It’s dangerous, if you’re not a fish.”

“I’m a great floater.” Plastic pushes her black checker to the back of the board. “King me!”

“It doesn’t matter,” says StingRay. “The beach is only safe for stingrays,

.and salmons,

and goldfish.

“There are dangers in the bigness that only fish like me know about,” she continues.

“Jellyfish made of grape and raspberry jelly,

And octopi with eleven hundred legs,

And worst of all, garbage-eating sharks.”

“What about the Little Girl?” Lumphy has stopped concentrating on the game.

“She’ll be okay. She’s a good swimmer,” answers StingRay. “She’s been to school.”

“Beach beach beach!” yells Plastic. “King me!”

“If you’re not going to listen, Plastic,” says StingRay, “I don’t know why you bothered asking. And,” she adds, moving away from the checkerboard, “I don’t feel like playing anymore.”

“I’m listening,” says Lumphy. “What did you do when you went to the beach and met the garbage-eating shark?”

“Ummm,” says StingRay, looking carefully at a fancy blue pillow that has captured her attention.

“Huh?”

“Hrrmplle mmmunuh nnn.” StingRay nibbles on a bit of pillow fringe.

“Hey, did you really see a shark?” asks Plastic, accusingly.

“Well …,” mutters StingRay, inspecting the opposite corner of the pillow with great interest. “I just know about them, okay?”

“Did you even really go to the beach?” Plastic bounces up and down.

StingRay crawls under the pillow so her friends can’t see her face. “Well, not in person.”

“Beach beach beach!” yells Plastic again, rolling around in circles. “Does anyone want to finish the checker game? I have a king!”

“Shut up, Plastic!” says StingRay loudly. “I hope you go to the beach and never come back.”

… …

A few minutes later, the Little Girl packs Plastic in a tote bag along with a cotton blanket, sun protection, and some sand toys. Off they go for the day, happy as can be.

Back in the bedroom, StingRay has crawled under the blue pillow and won’t come out. “Why didn’t the Little Girl take me to the beach?” she moans. “I’m the one who sleeps on the high bed. I’m the one who’s a fish.”

“People like bounce at the beach,” comforts Lumphy, sitting near the pillow. “Plastic is bouncier than you are.”

“Bouncers and floaters,” adds the one-eared sheep, nibbling the pillow fringe.

“What?” asks StingRay.

“Floaters. Toy boats, bath toys. Bath toys go to the beach all the time.”

“Do you think the Girl likes floaters better than sinkers?” wonders StingRay.

“I’m just saying, she takes them to the beach.”

“I’m a sinker,” says Lumphy. “What about you, Sheep?”

“A sinker for sure,” says the sheep. “All this wool, weighs me down.”

“I’m a floater,” says StingRay in a loud voice.

“Are you?” asks Lumphy. “Wow.”

“I can float as well as Plastic, any day.”

… …

StingRay spends the next hour thinking very hard. Truth is, she has never floated in her life. She has never even gotten wet.

But the Little Girl likes floaters. And a fish is a fish, and a fish should swim. What if the Little Girl sees Plastic floating and loves her better than me? she wonders. What if she loves her better,

and starts to sleep with her on the high bed with

the fluffy pillows,

and sends me to the dump,

and says “StingRay who?” whenever anyone

mentions me?

It is a terrible bunch of thoughts.

When no one is looking, StingRay sneaks down the hall to the bathroom.

TukTuk is there, hanging on a rod.

“Hello,” says StingRay as if nothing is out of the ordinary. “Don’t let me bother you. I’m just going to do my regular floating that I do.”

“Your tag says ‘dry clean only,’ ” remarks TukTuk.

“So?” says StingRay. She puts the plug in the bathtub, turns on the water, and gets in.