Rosie has taken to a particular stuffed doll as her favorite chew toy. It seems to be a random choice. It doesn't bounce. It no longer squeaks. It's easy to be stolen from her mouth when I grab it.
Nonetheless, it's her current favorite.
A few weeks ago, I noticed that she had chewed a hole in one of the arms, and had stuffing in her mouth.
When Rosie puts things into her mouth that do not belong, I don't hesitate to stick my hand into her mouth and grab the slobbery hazard. Outside, it's usually some type of bone fragment that she finds on the street or, in the case of this weekend, under a chair on the deck. Inside, it's usually doll stuffing.
Her favorite toy, and now I'm going to have to throw it away. Such a shame, I thought.
But before I tossed it, I realized that I could simply take scissors to the doll, and cut off its arm. Each of its limbs are stuffed separately, and sewn seams compartmentalize each from the torso.
So, I cut off its arm, and now Rosie had an armless favorite toy. Such a shame, I thought.
This weekend, however, Rosie was under my desk as I paid bills online. At one point, I looked down and found stuffing again.
She had broken into one of the legs now.
I amputated the doll once again.
Part of me feels like a kidnapper, sending body parts to rich family members, demanding ransom money in small, unmarked bills.
Two more limbs remain. More stuffing, and the doll gets it.
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