Some of you might have heard that Dad was feeding both of us critical care lately. Well, yes, he was. And we hated him for it. But we put up such a fight about it that he finally stopped.
Oh, and we started eating with more enthusiasm too. Maybe that helped. (I doubt it – it was totally our disapproval that did the trick, I’m sure of it.)
Anyway, dad was all happy when he saw us “sharing” a carrot this morning:
The thing is, he doesn’t understand that we have a different definition of “sharing.” As in, this carrot is MINE, Betsy, and you can’t have it, and I’m going to pick it up and take it over to the other corner so I can eat it in peace… and then you’re going to come and take it from me, and I’m going to have to grunt and take it back, and then dad’s going to have to swoop in and “remind” us that actually, yes, he did put out 2 carrots (one for each of us).
Which, of course, we already knew. We just like to play with your mind, dad.
p.s. We are fine, and don’t you ever dare try to syringe feed us critical care again. GOT IT, DAD???