Who is my gloopy?

Have you seen him, my gloopy?
Paradoxical fur strewn all over the field where he once existed.
‘Why not bathe in his pool?” I asked myself.

Would the soap clog the filter?
Would the pool boy know of my transgression?
If the robot scum cleaner comes to close can I be electrocuted?
Where does he keep the buns?
Might the propane really not be empty as the ring that my knock produces indicates?
For tacos, is the shell necessary or will a bowl suffice?
What is better 10 radishes or 1 really big one?
Is it still called a cabana if you live there?

How can I know the answer to these?
Without knowing of my gloopy?