You know, mommy gets a bad rap around these parts sometimes. I've accused her of being a terrorist, I've thrown things at her, I've bitten her. But guess what? When she leaves for the weekend, things around the house really change. And I'm not sure I like it very much.
See, daddy's in charge. Don't get me wrong. I like daddy just fine. He makes me laugh. We play hide and seek. He lets me stand on things that mommy won't. But there are, uh, differences.
Take today for example. Things started off fine. I got my milk and a nice breakfast of eggs and sausage. Things were going swimmingly. Then we ran out of milk. Normally when this happens, me and mommy take a trip to the store.
But not with daddy. He took my bottle and filled it up with something called "Red Bull" (which is like milk, I guess?).
It didn't taste terrible, and I finished the whole bottle. I don't really remember much about the next two hours except that I spent most of it chasing Bailey with a stick. My doggy can't even look at me without flinching now.
And after that, I didn't really feel too good. So what did daddy do? Did he give me medicine for my tummy? Did he hold me and tell me that everything was OK? No. He handed me a hunk of cheese and told me to walk it off.
Mommy wouldn't have let any of this happen, and I really miss her schoolmarmishness. She may not be as fun, but she's just a little more thoughtful. She wouldn't have given me Red Bull and cheese for dinner. She wouldn't have made me watch horror movies and football all day. And she certainly would've changed my clothes when I spilled apple juice all over myself instead of making me wear a barrel the rest of the day.
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