Dad’s Favorite Chair
Dad always yelled at me when I sat on his favorite chair. I sat there whenever I could get away with it and sometimes when I knew I wouldn’t.
“No,” Sissy hounded. “You’ll get in trouble.”
I sank into the soft cushions. “I’m hungry,” I whined.
“I’ll get you some food.” Sissy disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she called, “Come and get it.”
The chair was too comfortable, and I didn’t want to move.
Footsteps sounded. Dad yelled, “How many times have I told that dog to stop sitting on my chair? Go, scoot.”Whoops. Caught. Again.