Dale and the Count

 

Dale and the Count

Some say it’s the eyes that reveal the soul. But for Dale T. Doll—stitched eyelids forever frozen in a judgmental squint—it was all about the teeth.

Specifically, the teeth of Count Chompula, his new Venus Flytrap, who now reigned in a small terra-cotta pot upon the sunlit windowsill of Barry’s book-crammed study. The window faced east, meaning morning rays lit up the room with just enough theatrical drama to satisfy Dale’s flair for the dramatic. Naturally, he relocated his laptop to the window, claiming it was "for the light." In truth, he simply didn’t trust Barry to properly supervise the Count in his absence.

"Photosynthesis and education," Dale muttered, tapping away at his blog while eyeing the plant. "A well-rounded upbringing is critical."

By week two, Dale had begun the tutorials.

"Now listen carefully, Count Chompula," he said one afternoon, perching stiffly in a velvet armchair salvaged from a haunted estate sale (Barry was still unsure whether it had always smelled like lavender and regret). "Humans are strange creatures. They have soft middles and hard opinions. You must be patient. Observant. Strike only when the time is right. Also, avoid biting Barry. He provides snacks."

The Count, naturally, said nothing. But Dale insisted the plant was absorbing it all. He'd even printed out flashcards: a smiley face, a mosquito, a miniature print of Dale himself (“For identification purposes—do not eat”).

And then, one fateful Tuesday morning, it happened.

Dale was dictating a post about haunted VCR rewinding sounds when he heard it: the snap.

He looked up, and there it was. A twitching, partially-devoured gnat, caught between two tooth-lined lobes. The Count’s first kill.

Dale dropped his coffee mug.

“My boy,” he whispered, placing a trembling wooden hand against his chest. “You’ve done it.”

There was no ceremony. No triumphant music. Just Dale, whispering words of encouragement to a carnivorous plant while Barry vacuumed quietly in the background.

“Chompula, you marvelous menace,” Dale said. “Today a gnat... tomorrow, the world.”

Barry looked up. “You talking to the plant again?”

“He is listening, Barry. He is becoming.”

And as the morning sun burned through the window, Count Chompula basked in the light—and perhaps, in a father's pride.