See that dog-shaped abyss that my fiancée is sacrificing pizza into? She turned three last week, and she got her very own personal pan to celebrate.
Of course she loved it, and licked the box clean, but it also gave her gas.
Daisy is rarely flatulent. When it happens, she’s confused–“Something is awry. What can be done about this?”–but this time, she just kept shooting me accusatory glares.
I dunno whether it was resentment for letting her eat such rich food, or an attempt to frame me for her farts, but this is the sort of sass that’s brightened my life for the past three years.