Too Often

Too often, I find myself in this position:

Talking to the dog. 

Here, I am instructing him that he should go over 'there' and lie in the grass. He did not obey. 

The frequency with which I find myself having the following conversation concerns me.

Brad: "What did you say?"

Me: "Oh, I was talking to the dog."

I know what you're thinking. 'Do they talk back?'

No, don't be silly, they don't talk back.  Not with words anyway.

They nod. And occasionally, Presley will sneeze when he wants my attention. But usually, when they want something, they simply sit in front of it and stare. 

Like when Presley decided that he wanted all of the Christmas treats I had made. 

And then recruited Phoebe to join his cause. 

Or any of the numerous times he wants a treat. 

Or to go outside.

Or for us to throw something. (even a giant stuffed dog that Brad made. Yes, Brad made that in high school!) 

Or for a belly rub. Yes, he will flop down anywhere he so desires and demand one. 

On the bed. 

Or on the tile floor. 

What can I say? They are my kids. And I adore them. Shedding, licking, fluffy sweetness and all. 

Phoebe loves to lay in the sun with her chewie. 

And Presley will die if he can't see me at any given moment when I am home. 

But they're my kids. And if talking to them makes me crazy, so be it.