Buffet or Bone yard.... it's all in the eye of the beholder.

When momma can't do what she wants to do [thank you doc for telling her she can't do things], she gets weird[er]. She walks around, points to stuff, makes "honey do" lists for other people [poor daddy] and makes plans.

We know this routine. We put up with it as best as we can. We secretly support each other and endure the looks of disapproval when pillows fall off the couch. We tolerate that pruned faced pained look she puts on when stuff attaches itself to your paws and it tracks upstairs. We don't tell on each other, we know this will be over soon and flying under the radar is the key to survival.

BUT. Yes there is always a BUT. This afternoon, that woman went too far. On top of her number 7 list of to do stuff [yes there are that many lists!] she put, and I quote, "Get rid of the bone yard." GASP. Taking deep breath. What momma calls "the bone yard" is actually our bone buffet. You know, the pink heart dish in the family room that holds all the treasured bones. NOT a bone yard. Ick that sounds awful. Grave yard.... bone yard... Why on earth would she want to get rid of our bone buffet? We use that! And we already make an effort to keep all of our bones in there! Do we mess with her ever growing patrimony of olive jars? No. Do we touch in any way her insane stash of olive oil? No. So why is it that she feels compelled to mess with our stuff?

I, no, WE (JD, Wendy and I) need to hire our 2legged siblings. We need some representation of the legal kind. Ok. That shall be topic one on our agenda when they arrive on Saturday.

While we're at it, I better work on a more comprehensive list of demands. Something inclusive enough and with enough "fat" on it that we can afford to "bargain" and "leverage."

Do you have any suggestions for me?

Sign me Farklempt

'vie