Why, oh why, my dear George, is my presence required in the kitchen while you partake of your evening meal? Once your head is in the breakfast bowl, I think a truck could drive through the house and you wouldn't come up for air. Is breakfast that much more delicious than dinner? (Should I mention that the food is the same -- it comes from the same bag, is measured with the same measuring cup, and is dumped into the same bowl?)
But dinner, now that's an entirely different proposition. You greet me at the door, howl for food, and then, almost daily, can't decide if you should eat dinner or sit in your favorite window which I've opened upon my arrival. When you do choose food, you can't seem to focus on the meal and keep wandering back to me. When I go to the kitchen in search of my dinner, you're crying again. You'll only eat quietly when I'm standing in the room. My dear one, why is this? Why the crying and moaning and carrying on, day after day after day? Please, please -- could you get just a touch of laryngitis for a couple of days?!
No comments:
Post a Comment