Rose is showing me a series of pictures she has colored in a Dover book of dragons. She flips to one particularly fearsome-looking creature with deadly claws and an evil glare.
“This one is Rilla’s,” she tells me.
“Hi, Sugar,” says Rilla, leaning close to kiss the beast tenderly upon its snarling, dagger-toothed snout. “My little sweetie.”
The Five-Year-Old on Matters of Taste
Who Says Latin’s a Dead Language?
I think he means “with affection”
With All Those Cages to Clean, She’ll NEED a Drink