Home again Home again, jiggedy jig

Well, it’s 6 pm, and the doggies are home from their vacation at Uncle Hooman’s.

To say that they are underwhelmed about being home is an understatement.

“WHERE is the bar I like to lie under?” asks Toot, because we have no bar.

“WHERE is the pile of laundry Uncle Hooman lets me sleep upon?” queries Cleo, upon realizing that our laundry is in a basket too high for her to jump into.

I arrived to pick up their ungrateful little asses while someone else was at Uncle Hooman’s door. Toot followed THE OTHER PERSON to the curb, and only reluctantly came back to greet me after he had driven off. (Well, to be fair, he WAS delivering food.)

Cleo didn’t even get off the couch in the movie room to greet me. I had to pick her up and carry her to the car.

The girls are apparently addicted to the luxuries chez Hotel Hooman. They are cranky tonight.

I have a feeling that if they had opposable thumbs, they would be composing rude messages to put on picket signs concerning the crappy life they have at home. Also, they would be knocking the phone off the hook to call Uncle Hooman, barking “HELP! Come get us!”

I assume this will be a passing revolt, since both put together have the attention span of a single gnat. *sigh*

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About merseamersea

setter of cryptic crosswords, designer of jewelry, paper and card maker, editor, quilter, embroiderer, cook, avid mystery reader and occasional writer. Find me on Facebook as Maggie-beth Rees Rasor.
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