pet peeves

All of this writing I do about Belly--and that certain others do about stray cats--reminds me of a funny thing I did when I was in sixth grade. I had one of those fancy little autograph books where classmates could write fun things that would normally appear in one's yearbook. Things like, "Never change, Amy. You're the best." "I'll never forget all the fun times we had in biology class." Except this little autograph book had categories, lest one run out of things to say. There were things to fill in, like "favorite food," "favorite color," and, of all things, "pet peeves." Being the bright little girl with no complaints that I was, I wrote (to start things off, you see) that my pet peeve was "Mindy, cat, age 5." Erica subsequently wrote that her pet peeve was "Misty, cat, age 7." We had all kinds of pet peeves--dogs, cats, gerbils, birds, hamsters, rabbits. And not a single complaint.

Yeah.

If only our pets knew how peeved we were with them. If only we knew how peeved we were with them.