Our guinea pig died last night.

Our precious retired neighbors took our five youngest to eat breakfast with Santa this morning, so no one noticed in the rush to get them out the door at 8 a.m. (my husband realized it after they were gone). With a day full of basketball, a housewarming, and a Christmas parade, it was this evening before everyone was reassembled at home and my husband made the announcement.

Our girls tend to take this sort of thing very hard, and this was no exception. A funeral took place in our backyard and afterward the girls huddled around me, crying for their lost pet. My 7-year-old, a.k.a. Drama Queen, said she wanted a new guinea pig for Christmas. My husband and I had already discussed that we did not want to immediately replace this guinea pig with a new one (been there, done that), so I said, “Why don’t you pay extra attention to Muffin (our dog)?”

Without missing a beat, Drama Queen wailed, “But she SMELLS BAD!” and after a brief pause the room dissolved into laughter.

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