From the shrieky growly-grumbles and the thomping happy dance upstairs, I guessed Griswold* was very excited.
Slam. Thomp. Thump. Plunk, shaking the landing outside my door. Bash! Griswold learned to knock, not pull the door off its hinges.
Griswold could speak grabbled simple human now; I got my mouth around some Griswoldeze. Griswold grinned his jaggely-toothed grin, chuggly laughter came out his ears. “Drontifying. Drontifying!!!!!” accompanied by a foot to foot stomp, his tail curling into a bow.
“Drontifying?” I asked, not sure if it was a made-up word of Giswoldeze and human. “Drontifying,” he nodded, clapping his taloned hands together. “You come,” he added, banging my door on the way out.
Surprising; Mr. and Mrs G., especially Mrs. G., didn’t approve of our friendship. Attempts to break us up resulted in grumbly-whimpers and Griswold temper tantrums . The G.’s decided that for a human, I wasn’t as bad as most. So, as long as we were discreet, our play dates could continue.
But, an invitation worried me. For some reason, a Twilight Zone episode jumped up from my cerebral filing cabinet. “How to cook for(ty) humans.” Nah, Mrs. G’s cooking smelled horrorendous, but humans . . .
“Drontify, drontifying, dronticate” Grammar but no answer.
The next day, a note was slipped under my door. Griswoldian hieroglyphics, backwards human letters, and squiggly lines equaled Griswold’s paw-handwriting. The note, loosely translated: “Donicate. ful mooon. everyone. fod. dress up. come, plese.” My formal invitation. “Everyone – who was everyone? Dress up – as what?”
So, as the full moon rose over the cherry and apple trees at the back of the garden, I wobbly descended the stairs wearing my best dress, a hat, and borrowed high heels. I was ready to drontify – what ever that might mean.
A growly, grambling, gnaraling crowd silhouetted against the moonlight. Movement that might be dancing. Sparkler earrings. Elaborate headdresses. Lanterns, animal heads?, added additional light on the back shores of Griswold’s and mine “ocean.”
The combined smells of guests and food were overwhelming, making me stumble backwards. My arrival caught the attention of several guests, whose eyes shone brighter, and gnaraled louder as they eyed me up.
Griswold came skip-shuffling, clapping his hands, ears laughing, “Melita. Come.” He grasped my hand. Chanting “Drontifying, drontifying, grumple-grumple,” he maneuvered me through the hungry-eyed throng to the food table set up by our shiprock. I tried not to look or breathe. “Dronified,” he said, putting a plate in my hand. I opened my eyes and saw a slice of what looked like birthday cake. “Your drontify!” Of course, Griswold didn’t know the human word for birthday party.
Drontify, in all its forms, is Griswoldeze in reference to birthday party!!!!! :-)
*For more on Griswold (and me, Melita) see: The Griswolds.
Written for Tale Weaver #7: Making Sense of the Nonsense — Drontify
@ phylor 2015