(Another) Dear Flash (and Lulu) Letter

Dear Flash and Lulu,

That's right, I'm invading your blog. Get over it. In your previous post you claim how much you love your mom, however, you have an odd way of showing it. Since you seem to have so much trouble processing the English language no matter how loudly it is spoken to you, I thought perhaps I could communicate with you more effectively if I wrote down my thoughts.

First, please allow me to assure you that you are not starving. In fact, if the newspapers bothered to publish a canine version of those irritating "body-mass indices", I'm sure we would discover that you've got far more waddle in your walk than is strictly necessary. The way you visually track every bite of food I take, with a trembling expression of frantic pleading, is most annoying.

When I say to move, it means go someplace else, not switch positions with each other so there are still two of you in the way. When I say "go to bed" when you whine or scratch at the bedroom door at 2:30 am in the morning, I mean it. Actually, I really mean it.

The dishes with the paw prints are yours and contain your food. The other dishes are mine and contain my food. (Please note, placing a paw print in the middle of my plate & food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food & dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.)

The hallway was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. Beating me to the fridge is not the object. Tripping me doesn't help because I fall faster than you can run.

I cannot buy anything bigger than a king size bed. I am very sorry about this. Do not think I will continue to sleep on the couch to ensure your comfort. Look at videos of dogs sleeping on YouTube. They can actually curl up in a ball. It is not necessary to sleep perpendicular to each other stretched out to the fullest extent possible. Actually, there is no reason why you both cannot sleep on the couch and leave me to sleep peacefully.

My flip flops are not miniature Frisbees. Also, the following are not digestible: Toads. Pens. Socks. I can show you evidence out in the yard. Stop eating them; they are not food!

For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom. If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine, try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open. I must exit through the same door I entered. (In addition, I have been using the bathroom for years...canine attendance is not mandatory.)

The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dogs or cats' butt. I cannot stress this enough. It would be such a simple change for you.

I do not mind rolling down the window for you when we are in the car. I don't even mind that the air rushing up your nostrils makes you sneeze. What I do mind is that you always pull your head into the car to share your sneeze with the back of my neck. Keep your head in or out, that's all I ask.

The stuff in the trash can is not your food. Oh, and your expression of shocked innocence when we accuse you of dining at the garbage buffet is not nearly as persuasive as the forensic evidence left strewn around the kitchen.

Look, you do make me crazy sometimes. But I suppose I have to admit that even though you're lazy (you probably won't even bother to read this letter!) and don't seem very bright, you do have your positive attributes. I suppose life just wouldn't be the same without you.

Wanna go for a walk?

Hugs and kisses,
Your Mom