I am Toast. This is my post.
My mommy recently pulled me aside to discuss my need to chew on blankets.
I do not apologize for my behavior.
Frankly, she should be thrilled that I choose to chew on my own blanket rather than furniture or shoes like my colleagues. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the shelves of neatly arranged shoes in that cave you call a closet, Mommy. Perhaps I’ll wander in there some random night and help myself to a nice pair of strappy sandals; they look rather tasty. Or a pair of boots – I could make a day of it. Don’t think I won’t. The only thing holding me back is my respect for your personal property. I only ask for the same respect.
It’s my blanket, I can chew it if I want to. And please, for the love of Lassie, stop replacing my blankets when I finally get the proper number of holes in them (963 for those of you unaware of Einstein’s Blanket Hole Theorem). I’m a small Toast working with a limited number of teeth, at my age it’s not as easy as it used to be and I don’t appreciate your interference.
That is all.