Abby’s Book Reviews: Katurpiller Glutton Dies!

Mom reads me books over and over and over again. I like hearing the same book read to me, because I often fall asleep and miss parts. Depending upon how full my belly is, it can take me several nights to get through a whole story.

Gluttony Rewarded?

Gluttony Rewarded?

One book Mom reads is about a katurpiller. I’ve never seen a katurpiller, but it sounds like a pig with lots of feet. Basically, as I understand it, the very hungry katurpiller chews holes in some leaves, the  katurpiller chews holes in some fruit, the  katurpiller chews holes in some more fruit, and then the  katurpiller ruins even more fruit instead of finishing any of the fruit he started to eat earlier, so, as you might imagine, he is never satisfied and he should be seen as a cautionary tale concerning American hyperconsumerist, anti-environmental practices.

Near the end of the book, the katurpiller faces the consequences of extreme and embarrassing gluttony after he gorges himself on all kinds of trash, discarded candy, and other detritus until he gets a debilitating stomach ache. Finally, having learned nothing from his shameful behavior, the katurpiller binges one final time and crams so much into his gullet that he can no longer leave his house and he dies a lonely shut-in.

That’s a very sad ending but it’s probably a relief to his katurpiller boss, since his disability payments were no doubt killing his leaf harvesting company and his boss can now outsource the very hungry katurpiller’s job to an Asian butterfly who has excellent math skills, has an incredible work ethic, and who only needs to eat a tiny bit of flower sap once a day.

Mom says that the katurpiller doesn’t die, that it’s the katurpiller that BECOMES the butterfly, but she’s not right. If the katurpiller BECOMES the butterfly, that means the very hungry katurpiller gets rewarded for his selfish behavior, his destructive dietary habits, and his ecological malfeasance.  Whether I’m right or Mom’s right, the hungry katurpiller is certainly not an appropriate role model for babies! You don’t see me starting a new bottle until the bottle I’m drinking is either empty or at least older than an hour.

Why is Shel mad?

Why is Shel so angry?

Another book we read quite often, The Giving Tree, is complex and rather troubling. The author looks scary and he writes about a tree that talks to a boy. Mrs. Tree gives everything, but Mrs. Tree gets nothing back. That’s basically the whole book, but Mrs. Tree’s raw deal is even worse when you look closely at the situation, and we’re going to look more closely at Mrs. Tree’s plight in part two.

This is what’s known as a “teaser,” so I’m not going to talk about Mrs. Tree until my second book review.

Before we go, you should know that this Shel guy not only gives me a lot to think about, but he also gives Hogan Dog nightmares. As you may know, Hogan’s canine ancestors actually worked for a living. Ancient ridgebacks chased down lions that needed chasing, so Hogan was shocked when he learned of Shel’s book about a lion who shoots back. It’s called Lafcadio: The Lion Who Shot Back.

Cats shooting back? Unacceptable!

Cats shooting back? Unacceptable!

Lions that shoot back at ridgebacks? That’s crazy talk! That’s unacceptable! Now I know why Mom hates cats so much; cats are freaking dangerous and unpredictable any way, and now we come to learn that some of them are armed! Unbelievable!

I want Mom to get the book and to read it to me several times, so I can figure out where this ridgeback shooting lion is. If Lafcadio is somewhere far away, like South Africa or Arlington, Hogan will be able to relax more… although too much more Hogan relaxation might mean that the vetteranarrian can’t find Hogan’s pulse any more, so we might tell Hogan that the shooting back lion is kind of close, but not too close, so Hogan will wake up once in a while to make sure there’s no shooting back lion in the yard. Hogan hasn’t been this upset since he learned about the spraying back skunk!

That’s all for this book review. We’ll analyze what went wrong with Mrs. Tree next time, so if you haven’t had The Giving Tree read to you yet, now’s your chance to get caught up. It’s a complicated book, so make sure someone reads it to you several nights in a row.

Let's give the tree another look!

Let's give the tree another look!

On the sorry state of solid food so far…

Non! Pas per moi, ma Mere!

Non! Pas per moi, Mere!

A dark day it was when mother’s milk gave way to cursed Enfamil, but the sweetness of the early days softened somewhat the blow of the ill-powdered bottle. I had heard promising stories of the “cereal phase,” so I gamely put up with the foul formula in anticipation of fare more suitable to my discriminating palate.

Imagine my disappointment when “cereal” turned out to be a not too distant cousin of Quikrete, a rice-based paste more suitable as mortar between bricks than as nourishment for a presumably cherished addition to the family. This foul substance offers no snap, no crackle, and certainly no pop; it simply oozes lazily from sandpaper dry to muddy mush, a ladled slop instantly recognizable to your average unfortunate Western tourist who has spent any number of meals in a Turkish penitentiary awaiting trial.

C'est la sog!

C'est la sog! Pppth!

Compounding the problem and intensifying the outrage, I began to notice other denizens of my abode enjoying complex grains of admirable weight, delectable crunch, and robust flavor. Even the primitive, somnolent fur beast consumes with relish a bowl of audibly crunchy, bison flavored grains each morning and afternoon. At least he recognizes my isolation from the pack’s foodstuffs and occasionally licks my face and belches in my direction after finishing off his allotted portion. He is a kind-hearted if admittedly disgusting beast.

One might surmise that I would grow accustomed to shoddy treatment at the hands of the giants, that I would learn to accept my bland diet as a thinly-veiled nutritional penalty for depriving them of sleep, of silence, of dinners out, and of golf. I have not! I will not! This baby rages coolly beneath a smiling, calculating exterior!

Ahhh! The Good Capn is a good choice!

The Good Capn awaits!

By far the worst part is the taunting method with which they carry out their torture. I could almost stomach the outrageous treatment when under the foolish impression that mushed rice was the only cereal conveniently available, but during a recent arm ride through the house I was greeted by the Good Capn smiling out of the partially opened pantry!

It’s not that the tall ones are too lazy or absent-minded to purchase appropriate foodstuffs; they have it and they’re keeping it from me! Their offense is not mere incompetence; it is sadistic treachery on a level unfathomable for first time parents!

I take some consolation in the fact that the Good Capn perches on but the second pantry shelf, a shelf that I will soon be able to reach  as these chubby infant legs learn to support standing upright and bipedal motion. Each day I kick my father harder when he holds me and each day I wave my legs wildly when my mother attempts to dress me, an aggressive training regimen that should pay dividends in the months to come…

Damn! Damn! Damn! I must leave off this ledger for now. It appears that the tall ones have just bought me mushed apples (no doubt for their amusement), and this new outrage will require its own separate entry.