Then, small, quiet Lucy chimed in. “What did I do, Aunt Brooke?”
Brooke hesitated, her eyes darting away for a fraction of a second. “You ask an excessive amount of questions, sweetie.”
Lucy looked distressed, clutching her handmade card tighter against her chest. “I only asked why your dog is riding in a baby stroller.”
Brooke’s six-pound, shivering Pomeranian, Cartier, was perched imperiously inside a miniature gray luxury stroller. The animal was adorned in a cashmere ruby-red sweater and four meticulously laced, tiny waterproof boots.
I shifted my weight and looked my sister dead in the eye. “I am standing in absolute solidarity with Lucy on this matter.”
“Cartier suffers from severe hardwood-induced anxiety,” Brooke snapped. “He’s highly sensitive.”
“He is a canine, Brooke. He descended from wolves.”
“He is sensitive!”
“Apparently, so are my children,” I countered, my voice dropping an octave. “Yet, remarkably, only the dog has been provided with a private vehicular transport system inside the living room.”
