Famous

I’m not sure what people do at my mother’s workplace. When I show up, they stand around and admire me. But what about the rest of the time?

They must just stand around waiting for me to return. Like paparazzi!

It makes sense. I am famous. I have a blog (very old school), and soon I’ll have a Twitter account, and of course I have other people to write them for me while I’m doing important famous-people things like napping. Or hunting peasants.

Pheasants. I’m pretty sure I meant pheasants. I’ll have one of my assistants check on that.

Last night I was at a soirée with other babies, and we were having a grand time. There were photographers everywhere, and people kept bringing us fancy hors d’oeuvres (yellow watermelon, thawed peas). There was also quite the racket occasionally. Our little group singalongs apparently came across as “howling.” This is why I don’t like to read my reviews.

You can’t really know whether your training regimen is paying off until you go a few rounds, so I tried a little friendly sparring with a couple of the older babies. Sadly, our bodyguards were being very protective.

It was a little funny seeing how well one of the younger babies could move around. “Float like a butterfly” ain’t my style, but I’m starting to see the advantages of practicing my footwork.

Not that I’m overcompetitive. I’m just saying, I’m glad I have places where I can be the only celebrity. Home. The bathtub. My mother’s workplace. That bar in New Hampshire where I was wandering around in my underwear one night. All the places where they only care about me. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a little attention.

Hey, do you think I can get on an episode of MTV Cribs?