Mistweeted

There is a downside of kids and animals.

Names.

You always end up with a cat named Blacky or Orangey. My old roommate in college ended up with a rabbit named Kitty because of the boy she was nannying at the time called all animals kitty.

The Dominique has always been the most forward of the bunch. She was the first to figure out what the water was for drinking. She has the worm half eaten before the others are aware that there is a worm available. (Then it devolves into some kind of chicken rugby) She is also the first one at the feet of anyone who comes into the run. She has yet to figure out begging, but . . .

So the youngest is able to catch and hold her, both having learned that leftover breakfast muffin is tasty. So she has started calling her Tweety Bird. "Because she tweets," she informed me. When I tucked her in last night I capitulated, but asked her if we could call her Miss Tweet instead. She agreed with the slight change with the condescension of a princess.

I should consider my flock lucky. I could have been whined into naming them Blacky, Fluffy, Browny, Yellowy One, and Yellowy Two.