This post is brought to you by . . . Tropical Storm Lil' Dude
She done crawled her cute butt across the kitchen floor and opened the cupboard and left . . . a mess. I think she could smell her food, only shelves above her eating utensils, much like a rabid Grizzly.
Next, she cuts a path to where she found the Beagle's water and food . . . oh, tasty brown nuggets in my mouth!
Which lead me, her Mama, to believe she was hungry. Woman, release me from your grip. I will not sit down into this eating contraption.
So, the Dad runs interference and cuts her off in the living room, where he tries his hand at bottle feeding her, not unlike nailing Jell-O to a tree.
So, we sent the little monster to her room, where she took her fury out on her bestest pals. Innocent bystanders, really.
But then, there it is. One fleeting moment where you realize, oh, she's still there. She's just been upgraded into a faster, more advanced model than the one you had before. More tricks and features, same low price.