Sunday, April the thirtieth, Clara Grace’s daddy tucked her into bed and told a story. He began with the time-honored introduction “Once upon a time, there was an…”
“Alligator,” the little girl interjected.
“Okay,” her daddy obliged, “there was an alligator named--”
“Clara Grace,” his daughter supplied.
“Okay,” her daddy continued, “and Clara Grace the alligator like to swim down the river and…”
“Bite!” Clara Grace interrupted decidedly.
“Hmm,” her daddy went on a little unsure as to where the story was headed. “Okay, so, Clara Grace the alligator like to bite—“
“Angelfish,” Clara Grace finished quickly looking up at her arch nemesis on the wall.
“Angelfish and flies,” she added as she remember the pesky insects which had only recently begun to pester her outdoors.
“Does Clara Grace like to bite turtle or stingray??” her daddy asked in clarification.
“No,” the little girl answered definitely, “just angelfish and flies.”
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