Flashback

Every now and then as a kid, I used to get what my sisters and I called 'Mexican jumping beans.' I have no idea what they really were, or where they came from, but I remember you could find them near the register of any corner drugstore.

Two beans came in every inch-square plastic case. I can't imagine why my mother thought this purchase worthwhile, except that maybe we'd done an exceptionally fine job pestering her, or maybe she too was secretly entranced by this alive but not-alive novelty.

At home my sisters and I would fight over who got to hold the case first. When it was my turn, I'd jealously cup my hand around the case, and then bring my face close to peer in. Pop! would go a bean, and I'd squeeeal!

Fast forward about twenty years. I'm grown, I live on my own, and I'm laughing on the phone to my mother, trying to describe the Mexican jumping bean that's made its way into my kitchen.

He's scrappy; he goes by the name of Kai. He puts both paws up against the wall, and leaps as high as he can, straight up. Once! twice! three times! And I squeeeeeal!