Little Dody had just finished his morning bath, his fur fluffy and clean, smelling of sweet jungle herbs. Everything seemed peaceful. That is, until Mama reached for the tiny leaf-woven gloves she always helped him wear after bathing—to keep his hands warm and safe.
The moment he saw them, Dody’s face changed.
First, a scrunch of the nose. Then, a puffed-out cheek. And then, like thunder, came the loudest cry Mama had ever heard from her tiny son.
“Noooo!” his body seemed to scream as he threw his arms into the air and twisted away. His sharp wails cut through the jungle air like a siren, echoing off the trees. Tiny birds flew off in a panic. A nearby monkey troop paused mid-munch. Even the bugs seemed to freeze.
Dody’s tantrum had begun.
He stomped his feet, kicked up water, and threw himself onto the soft dirt with a dramatic flop. His cry wasn’t just loud—it was extremely loud. His little chest heaved as tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking his freshly dried fur.
Mama blinked, stunned. She had seen fussiness before, but this? This was next level. All over a simple glove.
She knelt calmly beside him, glove still in hand, trying to reason with him in soft coos. “It’s just your glove, Dody. You always wear it after bath time.”
But Dody wanted nothing to do with it. To him, it was betrayal. He kicked the glove. Then cried harder.
Eventually, worn out from the noise and flailing, he let Mama scoop him up. No glove, just warm arms.
She sighed and smiled. Tomorrow, she’d try again.
For now, Dody just needed cuddles—not gloves.
