Most of the time I’m a really good girl. Honest I am. But sometimes I’m a brat. Mom doesn’t say that, but I know she’s thinking it.
I’m a brat when we get into the car, and I bark and bark and bark. I keep telling Mom I’m supposed to ride in the front seat. She thinks I’m supposed to ride in the back. She even tethers me to the back seat. The nerve. Ok, ok, she says it’s safer. I still don’t like it. And I tell her so.
I like to carry my own leash. I’m allowed to do that when we’re walking back up the lane after getting the mail. But I don’t have to wear my leash when we walk down the lane to get the mail. Mom puts my leash on me before we cross the road to the mailbox. But she won’t let me carry it. I tell her I’m supposed to carry my leash, but she won’t let me have it until we cross the road again to go up the land to the house. I tell Mom this is very confusing. Just let me have my leash when I want it.
I can be bratty when we come back inside the house. I know where the treat box is. I run to it faster then Mom can close the door. And I bark and bark, “Treats Mom! Treats!”
I like food. And sometimes Mom is really slow getting my breakfast ready. So, I have to tell her over and over to hurry. I’m hungry!
I’m a brat when I want to play ball and Mom is tired. I bark and bark at her until she plays with me. Sometimes I just look at her with really sad eyes. That works too. It works to get treats too. The sad eyes. Not the barks.
I get treats for being a good girl. That’s a good reason to be a good girl. Guess it’s a good reason to not be a brat. Hum, maybe I should always be a good girl.