Wednesday, December 20, 2006

You can't spell Dysfunctional without Fun (or ion)

Well, I've got a cat who thinks he's a dog. He'll go on walks with us, comes when we whistle, the whole nine, right?

We've got a 2yo who swears she's at least 13 and lets us know it every day.

I've grown used to these little eccentricities as part of what makes life interesting. Well, my dog has now found his quirk (which I will try to record for later playback when he's 18 and brings a girlfriend home). I knew the little guy liked squirrels... he wants to tear after them whenever we go on a walk. I always thought it was because he is a dog and that's what dogs do. Or perhaps he thought they were miniature sheep and felt the overwhelming urge to herd them.

Nope. He is apparently convinced that he IS a squirrel. No dog is this creative or insistent in burying bones indoors. He puts them in couch cushions. He tries to get them under carpets. Most recently (and this is what I'll try to catch) he places them in one of the children's toy baskets and nuzzles matchbox cars and transformers to cover up his precious treat for later enjoyment.

Perhaps he'll go around looking for them in the spring.

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