The Beast’s Education

The Beast is having trouble with his letters. We procure the most learned tutors in the land, but the Beast gobbles them up. He is a bad student. He also gobbles up his slate and pencil, and all his crayons, then is impressively sick. He stands proudly by. We frown, but really it is rather impressive. Suddenly, everyone seems to be doing something. Donald summons a servant and shovel. Rachel writes out an aegrotat—which the Beast folds into an amazingly ball-like dart and hurls out the window. Jeremy and I get together with glue and paint and cardboard, and construct a dunce’s cap—but of course that does not solve anything. ‘Oh what is it we can do?’ we wail. It is so important for the youth of today to have a good education. The Beast eats his times tables. We can tell he is struggling. When he tries to read he points at the words and mumbles them out loud. When he tries the hard sums we have set, he counts on his claws. He eats his books. He eats the hard sums. We set a test and give the Beast the answers. He swallows them gratefully. We hold our heads. We scratch our heads. How much knowledge the Beast must have inside him, we reason. How clever his stomach must be! We decide to award him several degrees. At the special ceremony he chews modestly through them.