The Lamentable Life of Scroaty the Dwarf: Pt 3
By the time Scroaty had reached his forties, he had settled into a grim routine. Having finally abandoned a tedious and wholly unsuccessful search for self-redefinition, the kind of search that a person can only attempt in his thirties if he has no family or greater sense of purpose, he had become a woodcutter.
The sharp sting of his rejection by the other seven dwarves had faded to a dull ache. Being “sleepy” as a character trait was simple enough, or “dopey”, but Disney had told him there was no room for someone whose key character trait was being like a scrotum. Scroaty had tried to protest. “What makes ‘Doc’ a doc? He isn’t a doctor,” he once offered, but he knew the truth. The truth, unambiguous and cold, was that Disney wanted nothing to do with a big ol’ scroat. Scrotums were not clean family business.
Scroaty had at least achieved something in his soul searching years: He could say many great things about a scrotum. Scrotums were soft, sensitive, and supportive. They were protective, and yet funny, warm, and disarming.
In the last few years it had begun to matter less and less. Scroaty had his own cabin in the forest, and he chopped the wood that would keep others secure and cozy during the harsh winters – The scroatiest of all tasks, really. There would be no milky skinned, raven haired visitors to his humble hut, and he reassured himself that such a woman was the kind of trouble his simple life was best without.
