Bones in my pocket

So I’m sitting on the chesterfield, having my tea and thinking how nice it would be to have a patio I could sit on to have my tea and do some writing of a lovely spring morning, when what to my wondering eyes should appear to port side but a little damp black nose and some very tappity white paws. #PrincessSassypants is asking to sit on my lap.

Normally, the dogs aren’t allowed on “the brown couch”, but if one is sitting on it, they are sometimes permitted to sit on one’s lap. Normally the dogs don’t like to sit on my lap because I, being their pack leader, am deserving of the utmost respect, and that includes my *personal space*. However, often I WANT a dog on my lap and so I will ask them to come sit with me. #PrincessSassypants doesn’t have a problem with this; she will fly into my lap like politicians fly into scandal. #Bumblebutt, on the other hand, is quite circumspect and often leery that if she sits on my lap, I will pick at the gunk in her ears or eyes, or, worse yet, I will fetch the Hateful Clippers and do her clackety toenails. She’s not wrong.

So imagine my surprise this morning when #Bumblebutt hops up onto the ottoman and asks to be permitted lap privileges. I am pleased. Touched, even, when she scrambles up on to my lap and leans in to me in a little doggy hug. “Awwwww,” I say. “Awwww. That’s adorable. You love your mommy.” She glances up at me with her big brown eyes. Tucks her head in under my arm and sniffs at my dressing-gown.

Right. I have bones for the dogs in my pocket, and have forgotten to dole them out. Man’s best friend, my butt.

Of course, after they finish their bones, #Bumblebutt jumps back up on the ottoman and asks permission to sit next to me on the chesterfield. I know she’s only hoping this action will produce more pocket-bones, but I’ll take the attention.