Nobody, not one single person at the adoption place, told me that one Friday evening, around 11:30 pm, I'd be scooped out of my warm and toasty bed and pushed into a pink dress with a plaid apron.
Nobody warned me about two giggling teenage girls with a half-eaten sack of potato chips and a box of doll clothes just my size.
Nobody told me about the crazed mom with a camera, posing me to get a perfect shot for some ridiculous scrapbook page.
Did I miss something here? Why did no one tell me this was part of the gig?
But you know what? I would have gone to live with these people anyway. They love me and feed me turkey and play with me every single day, and only occasionally do they make me dress in pink.
I can deal with it.