The subjects we’re observing are currently fighting over who is closest in proximity to the canine, thereby having best access to its neck. The largest of the three has herself draped lengthwise across the expanse of the beast’s body, a smug smirk on her lips, and the two littler ones are trying to pry her off while screaming alternately, that “IT’S NOT FAIR THAT SHE GETS THE NECK” and “I WANT THE DOGGY, IT’S MY TURN WITH THE DOGGY”.
It should be noted that there are tears. And, I actually think they might be choking the dog out. Please excuse me for a moment.
It should now also be noted that the dog looks as if she’s utterly confused, or, possibly, that she wants to poop in the house. This is pretty much her “all the time” look. And that brings me to an occurrence that happened a few weeks ago. Those of you who are also my facebook friends have already had the opportunity to laugh at my misfortune with the following status. Go ahead and do so again.
That moment when you’ve had a beautifully cozy morning. Then, simultaneously, you run to the door to let your son inside from playing in the snow so that he can go to the bathroom (cause he’s REALLY got to go), you step (and slip) in dog crap freshly made in the entryway with your bare feet, and in the process of opening the door before your son poops his pants you let the dog out accidentally, and she takes off like a bat out of hell down the driveway and out of sight. In that moment, you will wonder how you got to this point, you will breathe deeply (inhaling the scent of smeared feces), count to ten, clean the shit from betwixt your toes, slap on some boots and run, braless, down the driveway and into the neighborhood at large. You will get the dog back, and you will not strangle her, either. Superstar!
Back to our scientific observations. The subjects have now moved from strangling the dog, and are making their way upstairs. They are standing on the landing at the top of the staircase, still screeching. Based on the sound of “raspberries” being blown, I do believe they are spitting at one another in the only way they know how. Please excuse me for a moment.
When three children…errr… subjects start to spit at each other, it’s best to hide downstairs. In somebody else’s house. If you go upstairs and attempt to intervene, be prepared to get wet.
The subjects have now settled down after some strange drama about the biggest one’s harmonica which the boy WILL NOT LEAVE ALONE, and the biggest one Will. Not. Have. Him. In. Her. Room. She will not have it. The littlest one seems to have run herself exhausted, collapsed in a heap of curls and sweat and mismatched PJs. The boy is clutching his sock monkey creature, and the older girl is reading in bed. Suddenly, the boy yells that he has to go to the bathroom. Of course he does. He was just told to go five minutes ago, two minutes before getting into his overnight diaper.
It occurs to me that clinical observations are best made with a glass of wine. Please excuse me for a moment.