Lewis is irked at me for not sharing even one huckleberry with him morning.
“Only pickers get to be eaters.”
—But I wasn’t given a chance to be a picker, so I should be exempt from that rule.
“You couldn’t pick berries with your paws anyway.”
—So, now it’s okay to deny the physically handicapped berries?
“You’re not handicapped, you’re . . .pawsicapped, or something.”
—Same difference, bub: you discriminate against canine Americans for no good reason other than your own greed for berries.
“My greed? Who’s the drooling black-hole-for-a-stomach who thinks every calorie in the house should be his?”
—The who who’s starved by his completely unrealistic food-handlers, that’s who. Unconscionably starved, I might add; I’m a mere shadow of my former self.
“Yeah, yeah, tell that to your lump.”
Which, I admit, kind of crossed the line, so I immediately apologized.
But Lewis just flopped down on the floor and pretended to go to sleep.