Sometimes Li'l Copenhagen can be trying. He may test one, he may vex. So much so that one might find oneself vividly imagining, say, bludgeoning him with his own skateboard and pushing him into a halfpipe and watching his limp corpse roll about humorously a bit before slowing to silence, eternal silence. Pretty, pretty hair caught in a last breeze before being slowly soaked into the pretty, pretty blood a-spreadin'.
But then one reads an old journal entry and recalls the celery thing. The protocol for limp-produce disposal at my mother's country home involves strewing it about in a series of wildlife hot spots, then returning the following day to theorize, sans any evidence, about what may have come along and eaten it. Copes was involved with distributing a great number of carrots and celery stalks that had passed a state offerable to horses. Only because an unrelated chore took me over his path shortly thereafter do I know that he arranged the items into a substantial "HI GUYS".