An open letter

Dear Mom,

I've been a good boy, haven't I?  For the last 8 1/2 years I've given you unconditional love.  When you go out or go to work, all I can think of is that I can't wait until you get home.  

I let you pet my head and rub my belly when you're feeling down.  I let you scratch my butt when your hands need a break from the keyboard or pen.  I've even let you sleep in my bed at night.  You never heard me complain when you decided to bring home the hairless pet, even though her screaming and hogging of the stuffed animals was upsetting.  I even went as far as sharing Grandma's lap with her 

 

sharing my snacks with her,

and finding ways to entertain her.

So why do you insist on humiliating me?
 

I was tired and had no energy to fight.  A tutu?  Really?  And the reindeer antlers last Christmas...

You know I like the jingle bells better.  

So why do you do it?  Is it the gas?  Because I really can't control that.  You give me the food, after all.  Is it the throw pillows?  You have so many of them.  Surely you could spare a few for me to suck on. 

 

If I promise not to hog all the covers at night, not to take over any (additional) pillows, and tell the neighbor's dog to use the gate to visit me next time, 

 

 

do you think you could at least consult with me before putting me into the next silly get-up?  I mean, could you at least make sure I'm not gonna be too tired to resist?  At the very least, do you think you could not take so many pictures and post them online?  It's really hurting my reputation.  How am I ever gonna be the stud you want when all the ladies see me in these dresses?  Just think about it, alright?  

Pretty please?

 

 

Your furry baby, 

Winston