Writing Contest

Jib here.

I am bored. Kite is bored. Sailor is, well, asleep.

Mom is entering a writing contest. That means she is writing. She is writing and writing.

She doesn't have time to play with me. She doesn't have time to play with Kite. She doesn't have time to kiss Sailor.

We are bored.

Maybe if we all barked....

Will Yum!

Kite here! Me! Kite!

Will is here, too.

Yum. Will-Yum!!

High As a Kite

Sailor here.

So what that the whoppersnapper is five months old?

So what?

He's high in the rear. He's high all over, too.

He's high enough to steal Jib's toys off the outside table.

He's high enough to grab socks out of Mom's laundry basket.

He's high enough to snag a cookie from the kitchen counter. And there is NO flappy snappy to stop him!

He's so high he can't walk under my belly anymore.

He's so high he can't squeeze under the bed upstairs anymore.

He's high as a kite.

So what?

Growing and growing

Sailor here.

The little whippersnapper has become a whoppersnapper. He's growing. Fast.

Mom says she misses when he was a wee pup and she could pick him up in one hand.

Jib says he misses when he was a wee pup and it didn't hurt so much when he bites.

I DON'T miss when he was a wee pup. Now he knows to stay out of my face.

Runs with Stick

Kite! Me!

I had a dream.

I dreamed I was a puppy again.

I dreamed I ran. I ran with a stick.

Jib couldn't get it. It was MINE!

My stick!

I woke up running. I was in my bed.

Where is my stick??