Carmen, after dinner yesterday:

“I want a REAL pony.  Because I grew, like this,” she held her hands up as if to mark her height in the air, “and the little pony is too little and I have to sit like this,” and then she squatted a bit to demonstrate.  “And,” she continued, in an effort to further prove her need for a REAL pony,”the babies at the consignment store need my pony.  So, I need ANOTHER one.”

“Oh,” Matt observed, “she’s learning how philanthropy works.”  Next she’ll be asking the consignment store for a receipt for her taxes.

In a weak attempt to dissuade her from wanting a small ungulate as a pet, Matt asked her, “Where will he go poo-poo?”  Living in a neighborhood with a large pet dog population, the poo question was one Carmen should have well understood.  “Oh, you know,” she answered, “wherever he wants.”

“What will you do when the pony goes poo-poo on your bed?”

“Well, he’s going to go poo-poo out there,” she answered, pointing toward my garden of natives and then sweeping her finger to our neighbors’ yard.  “And he’ll just go poop, ploop, poop, in the grass and it’ll be okay.”

Indeed.