I am not pleased with my granddaughter’s attitude about Grover. She says he is stupid. What a jerk . . . she is. She found a copy of The Monster at the End of This Book on th bookshelf and was joking around with it in front of her dad. I told her that wasn’t the original book – that we had gone through perhaps four copies when her dad was somewhere around one year old. I would sit on the little cherry rocker that had belonged to me grandfather, the one that I had been rocked in, and read TMTETB over and over again. The cover, back and front – fell off of the first one; one copy split in half. They were all stained and wrinkled and dogeared. I didn’t need the book to remember the words, but I appreciated it for Grover’s picture. My memory could never do justice to his little face and gestures and the true-blueness of his fur.

Now, this twerp girl mocks him. Never you mind her, Grover. You are so very dear to so many of us here. I love you.