The day Garfield broke my heart

We rented Garfield: the Movie for Tristan a while back. Beloved was in the video store, and thought it would be a nice innocuous choice, not as violent or annoying as say, Pokemon, but not as mind-numbingly boring as yet another Thomas the Tank Engine escapade.

Tristan loved it. He loved it so much that we have gone through several DVDs of the animated shorts on subsequent weeks, and have even profited from a dollar-store colouring book and a few library books featuring Garfield. Good old Garfield - nothing a mother of preschoolers could possibly find fault with, right?

It's lunch time, and I'm cleaning up leftover cheese omelettes and peanut butter off Simon's shirt. ("Bibs? We don't need no stinkin' bibs. Bibs are for baaaaaabbbbbiiiieeess.")

As I wipe his mouth and hands, Simon wriggles to be put down. As I pull the tray away to liberate him from the highchair, obviously not quickly enough to satisfy him, he bellows, "Move, dumb dog!"

Oh Garfield, my old friend, how could you do this to me?