Molly has informed me that she doesn’t find it at all funny when I put my fingers in her mouth or grab her tongue while she is yawning.

Well, I think its hysterical, so ptttttthhhhht!

This morning, at breakfast, I asked Molly if she’d like it if we held a hootenanny.

She said, “Hell yeah!”

I asked her if she knew what a “hootenanny” was.

She said, “Nope, but it sounds like a humdinger!”

I never know when she’s pulling my leg.

Today, after finishing a pig’s ear, Molly laid back and sighed with contentment, “Yup. It’s a doggy dog world all right.”

“The expression is actually ‘dog eat dog’”, I pointed out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it means that if you are going to get ahead, you have to eat your competitors.”

“That’s ridiculous”, she snorted, “dogs don’t eat dogs.”

“Well. OK. What’s a ‘doggy dog world’ then?”

“The more doggy you are, the better things are.” She declared.

“And you think you’re a pretty doggy dog, do you?”

“Are you kidding? I’m the doggiest!”

“If you’re so very doggy, why do you talk?”

She shrugged, “nobody’s perfect.”

This morning, while sitting on the couch petting Molly, I asked her, "If you could be anything you wanted, what would you be?"

"Do you mean like a dentist, or like a giraffe?"

"Anything at all, you name it."

"Well," she said, "I think I'd like to be your dog."

"Your wish is granted."

We both smiled.

“Molly, I can’t find your belly button.” 

“What makes you think I have a belly button?”

“I dunno. Because you are a mammal?”

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions.” She grinned.

“Did you know that in Yiddish we call it a pupik?”

“Of course, dad, I was raised in a Jewish enclave in Brooklyn.” She looked down her nose at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, well. What happened to ‘speaking multiple languages shows good breeding’? Huh?”

“Yes, it does, but Yiddish? Really? Give me a break. Who speaks Yiddish anymore? Nu? Chaval al hazman!”

Um, yeah.

This morning, at breakfast, I asked Molly what kind of boy she likes.

“I either like them big and stupid,” she told me, “or a little guy that I can dominate. And they have to smell nice. Some of these guys, whew, give yourself a lick or something!”

Well, I guess she’s a girl who knows what she wants.

“Bad, Molly!” I wagged my finger at her, “Bad!”

“I’m so sorry, daddy.” She whimpered.

I’m coming to realize that Molly is a dig-a-holic. I went outside this morning and discovered that she had completely unearthed the strawberries. 

“Why Molly? Why do you do this? We’ve talked about digging over and over again.”

“It’s…” sniff, “it’s just… I thought I smelled something, so I gave it a little paw. Just a little paw. Then I scratched it a bit, and this time I was sure I smelled something.” Her head was down, and her shoulders slouched. “I dug a bit more, and I thought I’d found it, but it wasn’t there, so I dug a bit more, then more, and before I knew it the soil was just flying. The more I dug, the more I needed to dig. Finally, I hit rock bottom. I’m so sorry about the strawberries. I like strawberries.” She was really crying now.

“It’s OK. It’s OK. The strawberries will be fine. It’s OK. I know you can’t control it. We’ll get you some help.” I petted her and lifted up her chin. “We’ll get you some help.”

Perhaps she’ll grow out of it. Perhaps I am just enabling her, turning her into a lifelong dirt addict. I wish I knew what to do. Ugh.

I'm getting worried. Molly's dig-a-holism is getting worse. We might need to perform an intervention

https://youtu.be/7ee68wqG0C8