Why does my dad keep killing my friends?

I made a new friend today and named him Frank.

I first saw Frank while the dog was trying to eat him. I thought he was a piece of dog food and, well, because I love dog food... I grabbed it out of the dog's mouth.

But it wasn't dog food! (As much as I would have loved that.) It was the most beautiful little brown creature I'd ever seen, with tall pointy sticks coming out of his head and little legs that tickled me all over when he ran across me.

I even pulled one of those tall pointy sticks off his head because they were SO cool and wiggle-y. I wanted to taste it (because you never know what is going to taste good) but my brother started screaming and crying so loud that I thought he was going to break my poor little ears.

Then he jumped on the couch and started pointing in my direction. I was terrified! I had to save myself (and Frank) from whatever this scary thing was. But when I picked Frank up and went to climb on the couch with my brother, he let out the loudest screech I'd ever heard and started throwing pillows at me!

Then mom came in the room, and boy. You'd think she'd maybe calm my brother down instead of paying me any attention - but all she did was take one look at me and start screaming too.

I decided that they were crazy and sat back down with my new friend just crawling all over me and decided that it was as good a time as any to try and eat that wiggle-y, pointy stick.

Just before I got to try it though, my dad swooped in on the scene.

It was like the scary part of a movie. Scarier than when Pooh-Bear is stuck in the storm. Scarier than that big octupus-lady in the mermaid movie. Even scarier than that people-sized mouse we saw last summer that mom tried to make me hug.

Dad smacked my hand, the sting not nearly as bad as the heart-wrenching experience of watching Frank, my dearest friend, fly through the air before landing on the TV. I cried. My brother was screaming (I still have no idea why), my mother started hauling me into the kitchen. And there stood my dad, steps away from Frank, with a big newspaper in his hand.

He smacked at Frank, not once, not twice, but five times before my poor friend finally stopped moving. And then (as if it wasn't enough!) he scooped Frank up and I'm pretty sure I heard the sounds of him being flushed down the toilet. (Hard to tell though because my mom was spraying me down with some hose in the kitchen sink that she uses to torture me.)

The crime scene.

On the one hand... I really love my dad. But on the other hand, this is like the fifth crawly-friend of mine that my dad has flushed this year! What is wrong with him that he doesn't want me to be happy?!

I have the weirdest family ever.