Lewis is miffed that we were able to find chanterelles without his help. He was hoping we’d be skunked again and that his claim to be a shroom hound would get more attention next time.

—I’m certain you would have found many many more with my assistance.

“Assuming we could have found you finding them; as I’ve noted before, without a doubt you’d have been bounding off chasing squirrels or zipping from one pile of moose droppings to the next. Your dedication to mushrooming is extremely suspect: you don’t even like chasing balls we throw for you.”

—That’s different: I’m a working dog: give me a task and I’m on it like . . . like white on rice, or whatever you bipeds say.

“Ever hear of brown rice?”

—See, that’s what I’m talking about: you complain about my supposed lack of concentration and yet you mouth all these inconsistent platitudes that finally just don’t make sense.

“What? Talk about making sense: you’re a ‘working’ dog now? A sleeping dog, maybe but working? It is to laugh.”

—You’ve just failed to take full advantage of all my talents.

“And for that I deeply apologize . . . and then snort with suppressed hilarity.”

—Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother.