We’re visiting my parents in Idaho for the weekend so that the kids can go to my grandmother’s house to hunt Easter eggs. It’s a long story that involves who can be in town when and cousins that are travelling to Texas and stuff.
Anyway, the kids spent the day playing in the yard with the neighborhood dogs and begging me, “Please, please, please” can we get a dog and me saying I’d rather have surgery to remove and intestinal blockage. I’m sure someday my kids will have lots of animals and think that their father still has that same blockage which is why he’s so uptight.
Anyway, it reminded me again of doggie sheds which is an odd thing that I would have never thought of unless Devin came in and started talking about them. I have no idea why.
He likes to talk a lot. So much in fact that I wonder where he gets all the words. He’s not great at distinguishing between ‘d’ and ‘t’ which is sort of the point of this rambling.
He comes in to me and says, “Dad the doggie wants to go into the doggie shit.” I’m on the computer so I say, “that’s nice.” Then I register what he said and say, “what?!” He’s not one to pass up the chance to talk a lot so he goes, “I have a doggie and he lives in his doggie shit and sometimes I visit his doggie shit and I like his doggie shit.” I can’t breath and tears are in my eyes at this point so I get Callie and then she can’t breath and Devin, encouraged by the state of his parents, continues his doggie shit monologue. Then he says, “I’m funny,” and goes and plays.
I’m pretty sure we’re going to get a lot of calls from the neighbors after he plays with their kids.
It took me a while, but I figured out that his imaginary doggie lives in a ‘shed’. Thank goodness because that’s much more sanitary.
Since we’re in Idaho for the weekend I like to leave my mother in a semi-appalled state – the kind that leaves her just debating whether she should call child protective services so I say to Devin, “tell grandma about your doggie shed.” He says, “I don’t have a dog.”