Jordan and I aren't talented in a vast array of things, but come Sunday morning I turn into Gordon Ramsey, Jordan morphs into Wolfgang Puck, and together we make the best Sunday breakfast you've ever seen. Unfortunately, Brighton is afraid of our cooking. To be clear, he's not afraid of the food we make, but just the act of us cooking sends him over the edge.
At first he would cower in the bedroom shaking uncontrollably, yet was easily lured out with bribes of bacon. And really, who can't be lured by bacon? Then he wouldn't come out for any sort of deliciously cured meats. It continued to escalate to the point that he began seeking a safer sanctuary than the mere corner of the bed.
One morning we were creating the best breakfast sandwiches this side of the Mississip when we heard panicked little yips coming from the back half of the condo. Jordan went to investigate while I joked that he was probably taking refuge in the tub.
Turns out he was.
I didn't get a picture, and while I still have not learned how to use Photoshop I have rendered a likeness of this occurence:
What a little tub he found! His instincts would have served him better in a tornado rather than the great cook-off of November 2011.
Next week we closed the shower curtain so he couldn't take a kamikaze dive into the porcelain, but when a foxhole is unavailable I'll not be the one to say Brighton doesn't employ ingenuity. Apparently he thought higher ground was a better option:
Poor dearie. A bit of a drama queen too, if you ask me.
We've taken to simply shutting the bathroom door while we cook because, while I'm all for providing him the security of our bathroom amenities, he can get onto the toilet but is also scared of jumping down again. I assure you; the irony of him driven up there by fear and then stuck also by fear is not lost on me.
But while I'm on the subject of Brighton's yellow belly being where it shouldn't be, he's made a regular hobby of climbing onto the table. I suppose he sees us eating there and assumes that's the magical tablet where food appears. He's not all together wrong...
Naturally, he can't get down from there on his own either. Now, whenever I hear the stricken barks of a boy in need I know he's either stuck in the tub, on the table, or the toilet. Coincidentally, these are the same three places morbidly obese people also get stuck.
Just sayin'...
