I, Stella, of the Olde English Bulldogges, Queen, enjoyed an illustrious lunch from my friends at The Bomb Fried Pies. Lady Human drove me to their trailer where they shared with me fried baloney, the best of all kinds of baloney, certainly better than what the humans call ‘a bunch of baloney’ which, from what I can tell, is just a lot of silly human talk and has nothing to do with meat at all.
It would have been an illustrious day had it not been for what happened when we got back to the Little Rolling Box on Wheels.
Me: I thought the whole day was fairly routine.
Stella: You don’t even remember the insult, do you?
Me: Nobody insulted you. That one gentleman pointed out how pretty you are and the Fried Pie ladies were happy to see you.
Stella: Not them, Lady Human. Your insult!
Me: Oh, great, what did I do?
Stella: It hurts my feelings to think about it. And you don’t even remember.
Me: If this goes on much longer, Stella, I am going to take a nap like the others. Wait. Is this about when you climbed into the driver’s seat before I could jump into the car?
Stella: Hmmmpph! You wouldn’t let me sit there.
Me: That was no insult. That was common sense. You weigh 51 pounds.
Stella: Are you calling me fat?
Me: No, you are perfect, but you barely fit by yourself in the passenger seat as it is. There is no way you and I both can sit in the driver’s seat.
Stella: How much do you weigh? Maybe you’re the problem.
Me: Not the issue. You are not allowed to ride in the driver’s seat. It’s not safe. It’s not comfortable. On top of that, the wind was cold and I was standing outside my own car, arguing with a bulldog who would not get out of my seat.
Stella: ‘Move over! Move over!’ That was no argument. That was just plain rude.
Me: I had asked politely the first 5 times. I finally had to sit down sideways on the edge of the driver’s seat and inch backward until you gave in.
Stella: I had to give in. You were sucking up all the space. The whole affair almost made me sorry that we went to get the fried baloney. Almost…Just you wait until I grow up and get my own car.
Me: I don’t believe that will happen.
Stella: Why not?
Me: Your insurance rates would be too high.
Stella: Oh. All right then. You have my permission to keep driving me to get fried baloney. I still say the driver’s seat is mine.
Me: You may have a point, Stella.
Copyright 2016 H.J. Hill All Rights Reserved.