When Brennan came running out of the garage with a bra in her mouth, I knew the chase was on. Oh, it was so on.
Freddie immediately joined in on the destruction of my Target bra. She started with wrestling, but soon her head was through one of the straps and Brennan was leading her around the yard like she was a pet pony.
For a minute, I actually thought I’d be able to salvage it; that was a funny joke. On her second lap around the front yard, Fred realized she was not, in fact, a horse at all, but a dog—a dog who loves, more than anything, to play tug-of-war. Brennan happily obliged.
As I watched, my single bra became two. Well, two halves. Freddie was elated and she brought her spoils of war over to me, dropping the ripped fabric at my feet, watching me. I knew exactly what she wanted.
“No, we are not playing fetch with my bra,” I told her.
When I snapped back from the memory of the last time I said that (Who knew I’d get such crazy responses when I asked the tech center employees what their plans were for the weekend?), I happened to look up just in time to see Brennan burying her half of the garment.
All I can say now is “please grow.” A tree of bras would be most excellent.
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