Dear Olive

Dear Olive

Remember that one time when you were a diva and wouldn’t poop even though I knew you had to because, from birth, it’s been your habit to hold it until the very last second? And remember when I took you outside one last time before bed and you almost went but then got distracted and no further attempts to make you poop yielded anything but multiple blanks stares? And then I said, “If you wake me up in the middle of the night because you don’t feel inclined to poop just quite yet but will feel led to do so in an hour, neither of us will be very happy.” And then you said, “Ok! Ok that’s great! Ok let’s go to bed!”

And remember when you spent the next two hours crying/whining/yelling/protesting in your crate and I finally caved and let you out because I thought maybe the appointed hour was finally upon us? And then we went outside and you…

sat on my feet. And moved to wherever I was and sat on my feet again. And did not feel at all inclined to participate in this waste removal mission at 1:30am.

(For the record, neither did I, but I’m the human here and it’s my job to participate. I clearly drew the short straw in this equation.)

And then remember when we went upstairs and you immediately jumped in bed and gave me this look?

Yep. That look.

So let’s talk about the fact that your entire end game (no pun intended) was to gain admission into bed for the night and you decided to conclude your performance with The Saddest Sad Eyes That Know They’re Kind Of In Trouble But Also Kind Of Working.

You think you can win me over that easily?

Ok, so, it worked. It totally worked.

Which kills every ounce of my competitive nature/desire to not let you run this show and become a tyrant, so let’s just pause to acknowledge the fact that you won this battle, but I will win the war.

Well played.

Also I love you.

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