Dear Zayde,
This week I learned to perform on camera. I think you've seen my work. In one of my most recent films, I bravely overcome being placed on my tummy and roll triumphantly to my back, all while complaining loudly and pathetically. The off-camera voice (currently my Mommy, but we're looking for a professional actor to replace her in future roles) at first ignores my whimpering, then offers useless words of encouragement, and finally shrieks with joy upon my successful acrobatic performance. In another film this week, I practice the fine art of waking up. With a baby sloth as my muse, I was able to keep my audience enrapt for over three minutes.
In a most profound and somewhat alarming moment this week, I learned that I have feet. I haven't figured out what to do with them yet, but so far they are fun to grab. I also enjoy staring at them. What I can't determine is how long I've had feet or from where they might have sprung. Mommy didn't seem surprised by the fact that these feet are now always within my grasp. Perhaps she is the one who gave them to me. I suppose it's possible that I've always had feet but never noticed them due to the obstructive nature of those darn socks my parents keep forcing me to wear.
I have to cut this letter short; it's a beautiful day, and Mommy says that something terrible called "humidity" is coming soon to ruin our outdoor adventures. We must make the most of this temperate weather while it lasts. If you need me, I'll be resting on Mommy's torso while she rocks us in the hammock.
Love and fancy feet,
Zelda
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