Stuffed Animal Thighs At The Ranch Pen

Most of us ladies worry about stuffed animal thighs at one time or other, particularly in January, but imagine my surprise when one 70* mid-winter day last week I learned our five-year-old grandson is well on the way to a troubled future with the blasted things.

The niece TL’s sow, Petunia, has a new litter of piglets (below), so last week when the grandkids Blondie and Git’R’Done were hanging out with me I decided–as a treat–we would walk the mile down the road to check out the new babies.

Following, is a close approximation of how that all went down.

Danni: Hey, grandkids, let’s walk down to Aunt Sis’s and check out the baby pigs!

Blondie: (smiles) Yay!

Git’R’Done: (infused genetically with his gramps’ abhorrence of walking anywhere he could drive instead, clutches head and reels around like he’s been shot through the heart with bad news) Augh! Why do we have to walk? Can’t we drive?

Danni: No. It’ll be fun. It’s a beautiful day. You’ve been cooped up inside. You look like a mushroom. It’ll be good for you.

Blondie: C’mon, Git’R’Done, don’t be such a baby.

Git’R’Done: (Puts on the horse-riding helmet for unknown reason) Augh! Aww!  Why? Oh, man…

Git’R’Done in the riding helmet, playing with some furry friends

Danni: Your head’s gonna get hot in that helmet then you’re gonna want to take it off and I’m not carrying it for you.

Git’R’Done: (Still reeling) Augh! etc…

We set off in the beautiful sunshine, Blondie and I chatting about many pleasant things.

Git’R’Done: Aww! I’m tired. My legs hurt. My feet are tired. I’m hot. I’m hungry. Are we almost there? (he’s stumbling along with his helmet over his face, now, because his head is sweltering) Nana, can you carry my helmet?

Danni: No.

Blondie: (whirling upon her brother) Git’R’Done, do you wanna have stuffed animal thighs? Do you?

Git’R’Done: I wish I had a motorcycle to ride.

Blondie: (Rolls eyes) Don’t be such a wimp. I’ve got steel thighs. I walk up hills. I ride my bike up hills. Skate up hills. You drive me batty.

Git’R’Done:  (removes helmet from face and takes a swing at sister with it) You’re a sizzling sausage!

Blondie: At least, I don’t have stuffed animal thighs.

Git’R’Done:  Sizzling sausage! Sizzling sausage…

The whole story ends in anti-climax. The nieces, JA and TL, drove up and offered us a ride home. Git’R’Done quickly crammed his helmet back on and hopped in with them before we could remind him he was just making his thigh problem worse. We set off for home,  abandoning the piglet expedition without a blink. We were sizzled sausages. None of us got grit in our gizzards, or steel in our thighs. We did not see the new piglets.

(I did, however, laugh a lot.)

As always, thank you for reading. Until next time, God bless all y’all and while you enjoy Rend Collective tearin’ up  Joy of the Lord, hop and jump around. C’mon! Get rid of those stuffed animal thighs.

 

 

14 thoughts on “Stuffed Animal Thighs At The Ranch Pen

  1. πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚It’s pretty rare that I actually laugh out loud while reading a blog post, but this did it. So. Funny! Blondie must have upgraded recently because the last time she went jogging with me, she figured she was up to thighs of bronze. She offered to poke my leg and assess my progress right then. I passed, telling her I NOT have thighs of bronze yet. Later she poked me anyways, and I’m reasonably sure that’s when the stuffed animal animal status was born. 😜

  2. This is hysterical! It also is personally delightful to know that it’s not just my children who argue over ridiculous things or wear bike helmets for no discernible reason. Love this. Thanks, Danni!

    • Hi, Anna. I always wonder what goes on in their little heads. A while back one of my grandsons burst through the door yelling, “I need a knife!” I was like, A knife?! What, now? He said he and the other grandson needed it to skin out a dead mouse they found in the barn. πŸ˜›

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