Thomas is my little barnacle. Wherever I am, and whatever I’m doing, he’s right there, “helping.”
Act I: We creep on the neighbors while holding our stuffy. Mustn’t put the precious down.
Act II: We’re tired of staff’s nonsense and are retiring to our napping lounge with our stuffy.
I think he actually was watching television.
Once again, Thomas hid his favorite squeaky ball under the couch, and once again I was a monster and didn’t retrieve it for him. He reserves the chiclet teefs of maximum perturbation for when he’s seriously annoyed with me.
Someone left a half-eaten milano cookie in the shrubbery outside the front door of my building. Thomas was really disappointed when I wouldn’t help him reach it.
I finally organized the books I use for collage and found that I have an entire shelf of astronomy texts, several shelves of biology texts, and a half shelf of school yearbooks.
Also I have the world’s cutest spokesmodel.
He swears this is comfortable. I have serious doubts.
Tiny baby dinosaur. Ferocious.
Poor biscuit had to go for a walk, and I wouldn’t let him eat the Hot Pocket he found in a ditch because I’m a monster. And then when we got home, I wouldn’t play with him. He was having he worst day ever.
The poor baby bear gets a dinner plate coated with peanut butter, to occupy him while I trim his nails. He hates it though, and no amount of bribery will make him believe he isn’t being tortured.