There is a baby drowning in my bathtub, but that is about all I know about that. I don’t know the baby’s name, or to whom the baby belongs, or any of that. I’m not even certain if the baby is actually drowning or simply trying to get my attention. If it is trying to get my attention, well, I’d like to tell it good luck — I’m not budging, not from this chair or this newspaper — but that would mean giving it my attention, which I will not do. Let it splash and scream. I have a strong reading focus.
I’m sorry if it seems to you that I am a callous man, and perhaps I am, but I simply refuse to be manipulated anymore by some teething thing that keeps slipping in and out of the house from god knows where. I have shut and sealed every window and door. I have nailed the attic door closed and there are twenty-three rat traps at the basement entrance. Still, somehow, this baby manages to get inside my home and now it’s drowning in the bathtub. So what am I supposed to do? Drop what I’m doing anytime the baby submerges itself in the bath, or chews hungrily on the lamp’s electrical cord with its soft little gums? Once, I found this mysterious baby dangling precariously from the chandelier. My heart raced at this sight, and, this was early on, so I grabbed a step ladder and pulled it down before its stubby fingers gave out, but I could not understand how it had gotten itself up there. And who do you think filled the bath…
