The birthday boy, five-ish according to various guesstimates, was in a little bit of a mood this morning upon receiving his gift: a nice schlep around the neighborhood at 5:22 a.m., courtesy of the President in Charge of Early Morning Walkies (that would be longtime hubby) and a scrumptious breakfast of things you couldn't pay me to eat, but most days, he's quite receptive. Except for today, when he pouted. "You call this a birthday gift?" he conveyed in advanced doggy parlance. "I'm five-ish and this is the best you got? I get this every day." "What did you want, you adorably ungrateful pup?" "I'd like that possum back. I barely got to know him. I was hoping to spend more time with him, but you two freaked out and put him in the yard. Do you have any idea how hurtful that was?" At this critical juncture of negotiation, longtime hubby stomped upstairs to exercise, leaving me to handle this unhappy birthday boy. "Would you like me to catch a possum for you?" "Yes, please." "Well, guess what?" "What?" "That's not happening. Now eat your breakfast and leave room for dessert." "Squirrel?" "I was thinking a piece of cheese with a candle." "You people don't understand me at all, do you?" "We understand plenty. Happy Madeup Five-ish Birthday, and many more." At this point, he offered up a paw. And guess what? I took it.
No comments:
Post a Comment