Apparently I was misinformed regarding the parameters of a slumber party. While I thought it meant one night of romping and swapping stories followed by fond farewells in the morning, it seems that when it comes to my nephew Oliver, well, sort of like The Dog Who Came to Dinner because here it is Saturday and he is still in residence.
Momma lent him one of my old sports bras so that he could waddle along with us on walkies. Something of an intrusion if you ask me since he tends to slow us down.
|Nothing to see, move along.|
I feel it is my duty as a mature and dignified labradog to try and instruct him in proper lab comportment.
|Quick, momma, take the photo while he is holding still.|
But his gears are as loose as a pair of jeans on teenage boy and to my dismay he quickly loses focus and resorts to cracker dog behavior.
|Get a grip, buddy.|
He even engages in the occasional (and unexpected) burst of zoomie speed. As you can see, I am dumbfounded as to how he is able to obtain lift on his generous backsides.
|Slow down and stay in the lanes, please.|
To his credit, he is seeking my counsel more and more and as distasteful as it is, I put up with his attempts to show respect by licking my labralips.
|OK, OK, enough adulation. I need to go brush my teeth now.|
And it isn't all bad. In fact, I think I'm going to kind of miss him when he goes home. After all, I haven't had a good wrestling partner in some time and for brief spurts, he's actually fun.
Sure, why not? He is, after all, a labradog and while not the best labradog in the world (which would be yours truly), he has a certain endearing joie de vivre which is hard to ignore.