She was starting to sound like a recording. Normally I could tune her out, but after a solid hour of this mantra, I was starting to develop a migraine.
"No, Phoebe."
"Please, I want a cat."
"No." I began my own mantra, complete with visualization and "ohm."
"Please, Grandma."
I tried reasoning with her. "You know Cujo will eat any cat we bring home." Cujo was my Chihuahua.
"No he won't. Please I want a cat."
"What about the nasty litter box?"
"It'll go outside, like Cujo does, Grandma."
Never try reasoning with a seven year-old with her mother's my-way-or-the-highway personality. I switched back to my "no" mantra.
Once Phoebe got an idea in her head, she would persist for days. Anytime I was in the same room with her, it was, "I want a cat. Please can I have a cat."
We went to the SPCA on Saturday and looked at cats.
"I want this one." Phoebe held up a kitten with fur the color of smoke.
"It's going to cost us $150, Phoebe."
"You can afford it, Grandma, you're loaded."
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