octopus' garden

Long before an overwrought crustacean conducted a catchy paean to life Under the Sea, Kermit, Miss Piggy, Robin, Animal, and a number of musically inclined marine dwellers swam into viewers' hearts with a cover of The Beatles' Octopus' Garden. The date: December 8, 1978 (as far as I could ascertain from an online search). The following summer, my parents vacationed at Niagara Falls for their anniversary, leaving my sister and me with our maternal grandmother for a few days. It was a late June evening, and, after we'd changed into our pajamas, Grandma turned on The Muppet Show. The episode was a rerun, allegedly from December 8th, though none of us had ever seen it. Grandma watched too, stroking her fingers through my hair while the Muppets joked, sang, splashed, and capered their way through the next twenty-five minutes. Though I was quite young during this surreal introduction to the Fab Four, the song has periodically gotten stuck in my head ever since. It's probably stuck in yours now. (Ringo Starr is delighted.)

Fast-forward a shocking number of years later. From the afternoon I wrapped it to the morning she opened it (and beyond), that eight-legged earworm has been at it again. This past week, we shared a day of silly cephalopod celebration in honor of Maisie's ninth birthday. Beneath overcast skies, we led our girl into the backyard, where she immediately settled on a soft lime blanket to await her present--an adorable, textured, squeaky octopus named Ollie. As children will do, she tore into the paper, extracted her toy, then proceeded to terrorize the packaging for a while more, ripping it into strips and shreds before realizing that Ollie might make a fun playmate too. Being an infinitely good sport and ever-obliging pup, she also allowed me to balance the creature on her head like a bulbous birthday bonnet, sitting still long enough for me to snap the kind of photograph any kid (furry or otherwise) would insist I not post here. (It's not every dog that would tolerate our family's unique brand of crazy.)

Following a combination of octopus playtime and zooming-about-the-property time--during which one traumatized Ollie undoubtedly lamented his lack of ink or, in lieu of that, an accessible hiding place--we enjoyed a tasty summer picnic and outdoor relaxation, listening to birdsong, observing the squirrels cavorting through the trees, and--birthday girl in tow--checking on the late summer blooms around the yard. It was an idyllic morning-turned-afternoon, capped off with the kind of dessert no dog could resist: homemade Pooch Creamery peanut butter ice cream.

Today, I watch our nine-year-old Maisie snoozing in the pre-breakfast dawn, new pal, Ollie, faithfully by her side. Like every morning, I smile, knowing how fortunate I am to love this precious furry soul, to be so demonstrably loved in return. But, unlike most mornings, my foot taps a very particular beat of its own volition, spurred on by the cheery singing in my head, a melody that reminds me of a magnificent Monday when we Fitzgeralds passed beautiful-beagle-birthday hours submerged in an octopus' garden...in the shade.