I still can’t put my finger on it, but she’s got something up her flea collar. I can smell trouble from a mile away – and she reeks. Or is that the dead mouse she simply had to roll in yesterday? But whatever, I’m concerned about turning my back on her for a single minute. Last time I did that, she ate half my sandwich.
I’m also worried because I found a voodoo doll in my likeness (complete with bloody red editing pen) in her box of toys. This explains my bad hip. And there’s this strange gaggle of laughter she emits when she thinks I’m not looking.
And if that’s not enough, she has stolen all my glue, fabric, cardboard, and printer. Is she planning on building a shopping mall? A barbeque pit?
What the h-e-double hockey sticks is she up to? This can’t be Spring Fever…