Are you singing the title Michael Bolton style? That’s what I was going for.
Esme made out like a bandit this Christmas. Not only did she get a mouse from Kiefer, she also got mice from her blogging dog buddy, Nikita.
As I was opening the package, Esme—the nosy little bugger—had to check it out, which, of course, made the opening process go even slower.
Frustrated, she meowed, “Hand it over! I’ll do it myself!”
Once she realized her claws and teeth were not the same as scissors, she paused and looked up at me: You! Wench! Open the package!
I raised my eyebrows at her sassiness, and then she tried another technique: she meowed pitifully. Pppppppppppleaeeeeeeeeeeease…. My life is meaningless unless you open this package!
So I opened it. You know, because it was Christmas and all.
And the rest is history. History that repeats itself every morning around 3:30 AM.