HAROLD N. WALTERS
The Charter

Little Miss Muffet
She sat on a tuffet
Eating of cruds and whey.
There came a great spider
Who sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.

Arachnologists are not in the least frightened by the latest discovery in the arachnid world. If they were seated on tuffets—whatever they are—they’d be squirming with excitement, unable to bide still. Researchers, the Indiana Joneses of spidermen who tramp about South African jungles, have discovered an entirely new species of spider.
Imagine the excitement.
Handy the size of a saucer, this arachnidan beauty has been dubbed Nephilia Komaci, to honour a dead friend of one of the spidermen who invaded her bower and exposed her to human eyes.
I intentionally say her because—and Dearest Duck agrees—the female of any species tends to be more vivacious in more ways than the literal one, than the bland and dreary male.
“You’re right about that, Harry, my lackluster love,” says a vibrant voice behind my shoulder.
Anyway, Ms. Nephilia, says Jonathan Coddington, an excited arachnologist at the Smithsonian Museum, “The females aren’t choosy about picking off”—he means chewing their heads off—“the dwarf-sized males of their species” especially if they are not in the mood to—well, to performed their conjugal duties.
Coddington idden codding.
Matjaz Kunter, the actual spiderman who, uninvited, breached Ms. Nephilia’s parlour and pulled aside the curtains on her web, now fears that this gargantuan spider and others of her ilk, need to be added to the endangered species list.
Which in my imperfect, wending way brings me to Pamela Anderson—again.
The other day—weeks ago now, I s’pose—Pamela visited Canada, her homeland, and stood curvaceously for animal rights. Humbly claiming to be in the prestigious company of Barack Obama, the Dalai Lama—and, oh yes—the erstwhile Lady Heather Mills-McCartney, Pam, a celebrity member of PETA, decried the Canadian seal hunt.
Patriotic expatriate—Can you be both?—Canadian that she is, Pamela claimed—her hands assertively clasped in the vicinity of her bosoms, I like to imagine—she didn’t want her birthplace to experience further international embarrassment because of a “barbaric massacre.”
Braving the bitter Canadian elements of downtown Toronto, scantily clad—bless her heart—beneath an umbrella in a cold rain shower, she hugged a stuffed seal and asked if Canadians would like to purchase a brand new dress—or whatever—from her animal-friendly clothing line.
“Harry, my puerile love, what are you like?” asked Dearest Duck before promptly answering her own question. “You’re like a testosterone-driven teenager the way you’re fixated on Pamela Anderson’s endowments.”
I’m certain Dearest Duck wasn’t talking about any gifts or donations that Pamela might have given to animal rights groups.
You think?
Like all of you I ‘low, I’m all for animal rights. What I’m not for is animal righters’…righters?—Have I coined a word?—self-righteousness and their tendency, like ignoble politicians—think Lab and X-ray services in Flowers Cove—to swear that serving their own ends is not what they’re doing when they rush to defend a cause.
“Harry, you’re babbling.”
“Yes, my Duck.”
Since reciting the opening rhyme about Miss Muffet, I’ve gone to my dictionary and, in the interest of accuracy, looked up a number of words: tuffet; curds; whey.
I feared a tuffet might be some delicate, posterior part of human anatomy and if I mentioned it Dearest Duck might raise a chastising hand against me. I’m safe. A tuffet is simply a footstool…kinda.
As for curds and whey, although they don’t sound toothsome, they are dairy products. I imagine them as a bowl of cottage cheese and milk.
Bearing in mind those animal righters—even sweet Pamela—might change their attitudes and react differently, forswearing cuddles and hugs, if faced with certain wildlife in its natural habitat, I re-write the introductory verse.

Little Miss Pamela
She sat on a tuffet
Eating of curds and whey.
There came a great spider [An endangered Nephila Komaci, p’raps]
Who sat down beside her
And she squat it to whoopsie with her Prada high-heels.

Thank you for reading.

ghwalters@persona.ca