The not so little lap dog.

Me:  Beau. You know you’re not a lapdog, right?

Beau:  Says who?

Me:  Says me. You’re too big to be a lapdog.

Beau:    You must be mistaken. I seem to fit just fine on this chair.

Me:  You’re sitting on me.

Beau:  What’s your point?

Me:  You’re heavy.

Beau:  Then maybe you should have moved before I climbed up into the chair.

Me:  I was here first.

Beau:  And I’m here now.

Me:  Beau.  You’re not supposed to be up on the furniture anyway.

Beau:  Oh you and your rules. You know I don’t follow them.

Me:  (Sigh)  I wish you would.

Beau:  And I wish you would just move and give me the whole chair. So, guess we’re even.

Me:  I’d move if you got off me.

Beau:   I’m comfie.

Me:  What about my comfort?

Beau:  What about it?

Me:  Well…. You’re sitting on me.

Beau:  Lady. Lady. Lady.  I know you like being close to me so don’t pretend you want me to move. And anyway, now that you’re retired you need relax a bit already.

Me:  How can I relax when I have a big heavy dog sitting on me?

Beau:  Not my problem. I’m comfy and I’m not moving so I suggest you stop your yammering on about nothing and get into the groove of the evening.

Me:  I’m not yammering about ‘nothing’. You’re heavy.

Beau:  And you’re annoying. I can’t change my weight but you sure as heck can change your atttitude. So please,  let me enjoy the evening and maybe, I’ll get off you in ten minutes or so.

Me:  Ten minutes!  My lap will be broken.

Beau:  Annoying and a drama queen. I’m just going to curl up here on your nice comfy lap, catch a few winks and pretend I didn’t hear that.

And so it goes. No matter what, Beau’s got an answer. And I never win.

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