Goober. Aka Goobie-poobie, Goobie-doobie-doo, and occasionally Peanut.
bər
–noun South Midland and Southern U.S.
the peanut.
(thank you, dictionary.com)
I called him a different name every day for about two weeks. Nothing seemed to fit. I tried normal human names, like Charles or Harold (the royal wedding got to me a little, can you tell?), I tried names that were seemingly invented solely for our cuddly furry four-legged friends (not to be confused with two-legged friends who happen to be furry, who I personally find quite un-cuddleable)... Sparky, Rufus... It wasn't until one day, almost by pure inspiration, I was walking through the grocery store and spied the name on one of those disgusting sounding peanut butter/jelly pre-mixed concoctions.
Don't ask me why the concept of alternating stripes of peanut butter and jelly in a convenient and only-one-knife-needed way sounds so utterly repulsive, considering a homemade-no-frills PB&J is one of the undeniable simple pleasures in life, but in my mind it's akin to... gross. I can't even think of anything. I take it back. Wait... nope, nothing. Ew.
(shudder).
Tanget much? Anyway. I saw the name, plastered across that horrible perversion of childhood memories and college-induced poverty, and immediately just knew.
Goober is actually quite the character. This may bore some of you who weren't denied the opportunity to care for a small rodent in your younger years... but I really am fond of the little guy. He's a nibbler, not a chomper, so when he thinks my fingers are carrots on a daily basis (you think he'd realize after a while) it's not so bad. Once, he thought my cheek looked tasty... I wonder what he was thinking then... anyway. He's my live alarm clock... if I'm not up when my alarm goes off, his squeaking is a good back-up. It's adorable until the squeak turns into a squawk (It took me about 3 minutes just now to figure out how to spell that word, for some reason. Strange.) which is not as attractive a sound coming from such a little guy. All he wants is his carrot, so can you really blame him? He's a cuddler, too, which makes for a nice replacement when Nate isn't around.
Just kidding.
Maybe.
I like him. He's my little friend since the tragic death of our betta fish (I accidentally murdered him. It involved a garbage disposal. Not a good story.) a few months ago. In all honesty he probably couldn't care less who I am as long as he gets fed, but he does recognize me, and makes me smile every time he "rearranges his furniture"... a.k.a. headbutts his plastic igloo house and throws his food dish like a frisbee across his cage. What a fiesty, adorable, ridiculous little guy!
(thank you, dictionary.com)
I called him a different name every day for about two weeks. Nothing seemed to fit. I tried normal human names, like Charles or Harold (the royal wedding got to me a little, can you tell?), I tried names that were seemingly invented solely for our cuddly furry four-legged friends (not to be confused with two-legged friends who happen to be furry, who I personally find quite un-cuddleable)... Sparky, Rufus... It wasn't until one day, almost by pure inspiration, I was walking through the grocery store and spied the name on one of those disgusting sounding peanut butter/jelly pre-mixed concoctions.
Don't ask me why the concept of alternating stripes of peanut butter and jelly in a convenient and only-one-knife-needed way sounds so utterly repulsive, considering a homemade-no-frills PB&J is one of the undeniable simple pleasures in life, but in my mind it's akin to... gross. I can't even think of anything. I take it back. Wait... nope, nothing. Ew.
(shudder).
Tanget much? Anyway. I saw the name, plastered across that horrible perversion of childhood memories and college-induced poverty, and immediately just knew.
Goober is actually quite the character. This may bore some of you who weren't denied the opportunity to care for a small rodent in your younger years... but I really am fond of the little guy. He's a nibbler, not a chomper, so when he thinks my fingers are carrots on a daily basis (you think he'd realize after a while) it's not so bad. Once, he thought my cheek looked tasty... I wonder what he was thinking then... anyway. He's my live alarm clock... if I'm not up when my alarm goes off, his squeaking is a good back-up. It's adorable until the squeak turns into a squawk (It took me about 3 minutes just now to figure out how to spell that word, for some reason. Strange.) which is not as attractive a sound coming from such a little guy. All he wants is his carrot, so can you really blame him? He's a cuddler, too, which makes for a nice replacement when Nate isn't around.
Just kidding.
Maybe.
I like him. He's my little friend since the tragic death of our betta fish (I accidentally murdered him. It involved a garbage disposal. Not a good story.) a few months ago. In all honesty he probably couldn't care less who I am as long as he gets fed, but he does recognize me, and makes me smile every time he "rearranges his furniture"... a.k.a. headbutts his plastic igloo house and throws his food dish like a frisbee across his cage. What a fiesty, adorable, ridiculous little guy!
I can't believe you don't like the peanut butter and jelly in the same jar! I LOVE that stuff!
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