Whenever I'm in a group of women that are sharing stories about their children, they immediately trigger memories of similar things that Smokey has done. For those of you who don't know, Smokey is my dog. The cutest sheepdog/basset hound mix this side of creation.
Because I don't have children of my own, my brain immediately goes to the only thing that's sort of similar. I mean, they're both dependents. Same thing.
Her: Little Johnny loves eating Cheerios.
My thought: OMG, Smokey totally does that too! (Smokey LOVES him some Cheerios. Remind me to tell you about the time he damn near ripped my finger off because I was too slow giving them to him.)
Her: Suzy got poop all over herself.
My thought: Ugh, don't you hate that? I had to give Smokey a bath a few times because he got poop all over his tail.
Sometimes, I try to "one up" them.
Her: Shaquanda can walk now!
My thought: Smokey sewed me a ball gown yesterday. Found him this morning dyeing shoes to match.
I tend to keep my thoughts to myself because I'm sure people don't want to know that talking about their children made me think about my dog. I figure they'd be kind of insulted.
(I have one more row to knit on square number 7 of my afghan. It looks just like the one I posted before, so I won't include a picture.)