We have achieved crawlage. Mr. Man is moving freely about, only going as far as he thinks he has to in order to get to the object of his desire.
One crawl, two crawls, nope, not there yet.
Exasperated, he bangs his head on the floor (really -- he constantly sports a nice big red mark right about there), no doubt repeating his "in with the good, out with the bad" mantra, and bless his stubborn, just-like-a man heart, he tries again, and again, until he can grasp what he's looking for and deliver it to his waiting lips.
It's a sight, I tell you. Straight out of the action/adventure movie cliche of a man desperately reaching out to save his loved one from certain death off a cliff (or the chic flick genre where he desperately tries to get away.)
This particluar stud usually ends up trying to crawl underneath our dresser. Then his head gets stuck, he gets pissed off, and I have to run over and pick him up, rescuing him from certain death under the never-met-a-vacuum recesses of the unknown. Did someone say MOTY??
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