Yesterday, I happened to follow my mum, Liz, up to the third floor. I follow her everywhere. I can't help myself. That's what dogs do.
While Liz was sorting out old clothes, I sniffed around. You'll never guess what I smelled -- not one, but two small cages. I knew they weren't for me (I weigh 50 lbs.) Not even my cousin Sadie Rose (she's a Miniature Schnauzer) would fit into those cages. Besides, the cages smelled like feathers.
"What are those cages for?" I asked.
"They're bird cages, Gracie," said Liz. "I used to have pet birds. That was before your time."
"Pet birds?" I was confused, as usual. I had never met a pet bird. A pet bird would make a great companion for me.
"I don't think so," said Liz, reading my mind. "I wouldn't trust you with a little bird."
I can't imagine what she's thinking.