I struggled with the decision, when Jay and I planned a little trip to Montana, as to whether or not we should take you along. On one hand, Montana is full of cattle and sheep, which in all likelihood would provide a grand adventure for one of your ilk. On the other hand, Montana is full of cattle and sheep, and your behavior would likely incur the wrath of a hard-working rancher with a firearm who did not want his herd bunched into the back seat of a Ford Edge. Reluctantly, I decided to leave you behind. And even though I know Baby Mac and Mama C (Catherine and Ellie) would be the most gracious hostesses EVER, I felt just a twinge of guilt as I dropped you off and headed to Big Sky Country.
Just so you know, Catherine kept me abreast of your shenanigans while you were invading her house. I know, for instance that you hogged the cool air in her house by laying on the air conditioning vents. I know you terrorized the cats she was also pet-sitting. I know you drank the water from the kiddie pool faster than Ellie could fill it (and probably peed in it too when Catherine wasn’t looking.) But your behavior at meal time was the most extraordinary of all.
For the record, I know Baby Mac hand-fed you each kibble at each meal while you were there. She’s only two – she simply does not yet understand when she is being played like a fiddle. I, on the other hand, am old enough to be Baby Mac’s grandma. Which means I’m a whole lot smarter and a lot less nimble. I have seen you scarf a bowl of food in two seconds flat, without chewing. And I will not be getting my arthritic butt onto the floor to place each bite of food lovingly in your mouth. Deal with it.