Mother's Little Helper

(With apologies to the Rolling Stones.)

Reports have been coming in from gloating relatives and friends:  "I sent my tax stuff in today.  Have you done yours?"  I have a guilt meter that has to reach a certain level before I'm motivated.  The meter was approaching critical mass yesterday and I finally got the drawer with the year's receipts and started weeding out the nonessential.  That job was made more difficult because Bessie wanted to be (where else?) in my lap, which was full of papers at the time.

Sorting finally accomplished in spite of Bess, I laid out the necessary statements, etc., on the table in preparation for the hard part.  Ralph appeared.  "I see you need my help, Mom.  I'll get right on it!"  (His definition of getting on it and mine differ.)  The neatly arranged piles were quickly scattered.  Anything Ralph felt was irrelevant went onto the floor.  He flopped around like a fish out of water, sending forms flying.

If I succeeded in getting him off the table, he sat on a chair and grabbed papers with a paw.  "But, Mom, I'm helping!"  How is it that a creature can be so irritating and such a crack-up at the same time?

Oh well, I'd brought the guilt meter down a few notches by getting a start.  I hadn't really wanted to do the task anyway, and Ralph was having such a good time.  I left the room laughing.  At that, he really was helping.