My daughter, Caroline, has a new pet stick. Denied any real pets in our house, she now takes inanimate objects under her wing. This week, it’s a big stick. Her benevolence is adorable as she cuddles her orphan stick broken off cruelly from the mother tree and left alone in the grass. And it is cold out, it’s so sad, the poor little….oh yeah, STICK.

She brought it in the house the other day –this chubby, gray stick that’s smooth on one end and flaking dead bark on the other. She’s been talking to it, carrying it around. Somehow, it always seems to end up in the kitchen when I’m racing to clean up and start dinner. And like with everything at that time of day, I have no patience. I grab it and throw it far out the back door. It doesn’t take very long before Caroline notices.

“MMMMOOOOMMMM!!!!!! WHERE’S MY STICK??????”

“Um, I don’t know. I think it went outside” I try sweetly.

“MMMMOOOOOMMMM!!! Quit throwing my stick outside!!!!

She stomps outside to retrieve it, totally disgusted with my cold heartedness. Now it’s back in the house, all cozy and warm, making little piles of dirty bark on my floor. I’m going to kill that little stick.