Oh the agony. Oh the horrible torture. Oh the emotional abuse. I am dying here. I used to have a momma I adored. I used to think the sun rose and set on her. NO MORE. I am now referring to her as THAT WOMAN.
THAT WOMAN, whose name I shall not utter, after breakfast, started prepping some food. Ehmm, happens every day, so for a while nobody payed any attention to her.
Then the torture started. A familiar, yet strange smell invaded the kitchen and attacked my nostrils which were asleep like the rest of my body. I got jolted awake. Confused at first, I decided to follow the smell. It led me to the kitchen.
A self satisfied smug THAT WOMAN, said she was expecting us. US. I looked around and sure enough, JD was there, nose in the air catching every possible scent particle. Same for The Wendy who NEVER ventures in the kitchen unless her gluttony wins over her fears. We were all there.
THAT WOMAN then took 3 small round things and gave us each one. Her hand on her hip, she matter of factly told us that we were "guinea pigs". Whatever THAT WOMAN, get your glasses, we are your Bichons...not guinea pigs.
Nevertheless, each one of us took one of the ball thingies and we went to explore them. Yes, they smelled incredible. But... the taste. OMD the taste was UNREAL, To die for detectability. My tail was wagging so hard that it even shocked me. What were these ball thingies???? Were have they been my whole life? What are they called?
Forget all the questions. GIMME MORE.
THAT WOMAN said NO MORE Not until dinner. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Dinner? Like after the sun goes down? I might be dead by then! Why can't we have them now?
THAT WOMAN went on and on about calories, portion control, we had breakfast... blah blah blah... like one thing had to do with another. Sometime she strings together a bunch of unrelated words that only make sense to her. Her logic frame must be broken because it all sounds like non sense to me. Bottom line she is not giving out any more bites of heaven.
Ohhh that's a great name. I shall call them BITES of HAVEN. THAT WOMAN calls them lamb meatballs. She is so odd. If they are made of lamb they cannot be "meat" balls. At best they could be lamb balls. I like bites of haven better.
If THAT WOMAN expects any loving out of me today, she better start by taking out some bites of haven out of the cold closet and get them ready for my mouth. Until then she is persona non grata and non gratis too!