I am Stella, Queen of the Olde English Bulldogges. I hereby call this pack meeting to order. Lady Human,, we have a beef with you.
Tiger: A real beef having to do with beef.
Wiggles: Yeah, not enough treats.
Miss Sweetie: Yeah, the treats are so small that my mouth cannot feel that they are there. My mouth is sad.
Doodlebug: Treats? What treats? I haven’t had a real treat in a century.
Me: Okay, here we go.
Stella: Hey, I am the Queen. I called this meeting to order.
Tiger: Then be queen and get our treats back.
Me: Y’all get treats all the time.
Stella: But we have noticed…don’t think we haven’t…that the size of the treat has gotten way smaller lately.
Me: You each get a treat every time you come in from outside and how many times a day is that?
Tiger: No, at least two.
Wiggles: Five. Count on your toes.
Miss Sweetie: A million.
Me: Bottom line, if I gave you a full treat every time, you would blow up like bulldog balloons.
Doodlebug: I would like to see that.
Me: Believe me, no. You wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t like the way it would feel. So, I break the treats apart. The vet warned me last year about distributing the treats too freely.
Stella: I don’t know why you listen to that woman. All she does is wear a white coat and try to spoil our fun. We could go on strike until we get our full share of treats again.
Me: Go on strike from what? You all don’t do any work to strike from.
Stella: Oh, is that what that means? Well then, never mind. We will just look pitiful. That usually works.
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