Mom has come up with a new nickname for me and dare I say it is not very flattering. In fact, I may require therapy soon to deal with the emotional scars. She calls me Rump Roast. Actually, she says, “Come here my little rump roast with legs.” She tries to disguise her insult in that sing-song voice, but she’s not fooling me. T-Bone is a more masculine reference, which I would be more than happy to respond to. But, rump roast? I have decided that I will not respond to that unless she is referring to a large piece of meat cooking on the stove and is about to give me a big juicy taste.
“Exercise” is another word that keeps cropping up in conversation lately. She calls us both pudgy and claims that a good walk around the neighborhood every day will cure our stoutness. So far, all we’ve done is discuss the matter for several days. I am patiently waiting for her to actually open up the cabinet door which houses my leash. If I knew how to open that door, I would take the leash out and bring it to her myself because it appears that we’re going to be in the talking stages for a good while.