My siblings and I had convinced Mom that we needed a "Pet Rock Museum" in our backyard, which really just meant an old shoebox with a bunch of paint samples on the fence behind it. She said it was fine as long as we used actual, small rocks we found outside. This morning, I was assigned to be the curator, so I spent an hour carefully arranging the collection and labeling each one with crayon. My cat wandered by and batted at a paint chip, ruining my masterpiece, and I chased her around the yard yelling no, no, no while my siblings giggled.
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