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Lola is such a drama queen. Last night I started packing up Christmas, not because I necessarily wanted to, but because I knew if it stayed out much longer I would be trying to dust tiny baby Jesus and would most likely break the little guy. And since he tried to murder Lola earlier this month, I figured I’d be having to explain this episode of retaliation to the big man upstairs one day.

I don’t need that kind of heat in my life.

^ Pun intended – this is a comedy blog after all. ^

There I was packing up Christmas, and Lola was lying in front of my feet every time I turned around. She was blocking the Christmas bins and tripping me when I tried to step over her. I finally ended up kicking her during a particularly clumsy move (both of us are ill-equipped to stay upright) and Lola started crying like a baby.

She was on the couch, whimpering and whining like I broke her ribs. I walked over to check on her and she started to really get going. She was crying and batting me with a paw and doing my favorite sad puppy eyes.

I think I saw a tear roll down her cheek.

I said the magic word, cheese, and she was instantly better.

Lola with her eyes closed, licking cheese from a cup I am holding in front of her.

Now I know how my mother feels.

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