At some point in today’s holiday Monday shopping trip, we were crossing the street and a child with one of these was crossing in the other direction:

I have never understood why parents put leashes on their children. I make arguments in my head about teaching children to behave in public, rather than having them tied up. Or that the leash is an alternate, emotionless extension of holding hands.

I don’t mean that. I mean that I don’t understand why parents treat their children like dogs.

Which is actually kind of funny, because — in London, at least — a child is more likely to be on a leash than a dog is. But I digress.

There was a kid on a leash, walking in the other direction. Maggie was in my arms.

“Doggy!” she yells. “Doggy!”

She starts to point at the boy on the leash. “DOGGY!” She’s excited. She looks back over my shoulder. “Woof!”

“WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!”

I know I shouldn’t. I’m sure it’s not nice for the boy at the end of that leash — not his decision — to be called a dog, and barked at by another child.

But I’m clearly a bad person – it’s just so damn funny. Five hours later, and I’m still laughing.

Woof.