Autobots, transform and roll out.
I bark orders each time mama sits down her crutches, speaking to inanimate (hopefully), objects. But what if they are Transformers? I wait, expectantly for two odd sticks to transform from mildly annoying transport devices to dangerous, lethal creatures with an agenda all their own, Megatron-like.
Call me Schnauzatron.
Mom reminds me we are sentient beings, crutches are not. We have courage, crutches do not, and I quietly say to myself, "Yeah, KA-POWWW!, until they transform, mama." I try to maintain reason, however, her crutches slide down countertops, and fall off the side of the bed, WHOOSH! While I'm Queen Dogatron, maintaining canine dignity during trying times such as these wears thin. I always remember there's a fine line between being a hero and being a memory. I'm one WHAK! away from becoming a distant memory.
Mom tries. She now lays evil crutches on their side where their transformation is less likely, and more obvious to detection, prior to attacking.
In the meantime I speak Transformer — Stick it in neutral, Crutchitrons.
One shall stand, and one shall fall (most certainly).
Holding on for the throw-down, hoe-down,
Maggie Rose, Schnauzatron 🐾
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