My father is abusing my monkey muse.
we have this little red and blue bean-bag monkey named Bobo. I forget where exactly he came from now, but he's been hanging around the public computer/tv area(they sit right next to each other) since I was in tenth grade, which is abt four yrs ago now. he used to sit on my head when I needed inspiration, and when I was busily typing away, sit in amusing positions and watch me with a sympathetic expression on his face. now, since I am mostly not home, he spends his days atop the television, usually next to the antennae. and my father has taken to passing by, putting him in vaguely torturous positions, walking away, and seeing how long it takes us to notice. for example, with his hind legs over his head, or various limbs twisted painfully round each other, or wrapped around the antennae as though trying to eloctrocute himself.
tonight, my father took Bobo's legs in hand and started to play with them. "I think Bobo's lost weight," he said.
"Dad!" said I. "Leave poor Bobo alone."
"Must be all that excercise he's doing. There, can you do that?"
I looked over and agreed that no, I could not wrap my feet over my ears the way Bobo, stuffed with beans as he is, could do. I then extricated Bobo from my father's hands and he is now contentedly frozen in happy-dance position at my elbow.
I know you'll all say that he is only cloth and beans and so doesn't feel pain, but I'm sure the emotional trauma will haunt him for life, even if he isn't flesh and blood. I'm thinking seriously of removing him from this environment and taking him to Israel with me the next time I leave.