Ever sometimes Momma makes me a recipe for dinner. Which, that is not fun for me, acause she don't cook so good. Eat up your fancy-dance company food, Georgie, she says all pridey-smiled happy-faced. Was you expecting a dump bear for dinner? (Thanks to Saint Bernard, I only sayed that inside my head.) Now I gots a bad decision: If I has to sit here all night, I might fall asleep and my head could fall down and drownd in this stuff, or, if I tries to eat it, I'm prawly gonna choke to deaths. Momma needs a new hobby.