Lewis is lying in the center of the living room with his front legs splayed to either side.

“That doesn’t look very comfortable.”

—I’m practicing doga.

“Doga?”

—When you humans appropriated the practice, you renamed it yoga.”

“Ah.”

—Yes, ah. The debts humanity owe the canine species, well, let’s just say, they are probably impossible to repay.

“No doubt. So what’s this position called?”

—Difficult to translate. Prostate Possum’s about the best I can do. It promotes flexibility and efficient digestion, particularly the latter. And speaking of which, how about some more breakfast?

I ignore this last request.

“I was thinking it might be called the Beached Whale.”

—Ha, ha.

“Or maybe Lopsided Camel.”

Silence.

Lewis is clearly not pleased with my allusion to his lump. He adjusts himself so that he is lying with his back to me and begins to actively ignore my presence.

Except for the pungent odors he releases in my direction.