January 12, 2009

“Explain something for me: I’m curious: since you’ve decided that you can hop on the bed without asking permission, why do you wait until we’re just a few minutes from getting up? Why not be presumptuous and rude in the middle of the night so that you’d get to spend more time on the bed?”

—Tradition.

“Tradition?”

—Yes, we of the canine persuasion are big on tradition.

“Since when does hopping up on the bed equal tradition?”

—After the first time it happened.

“What?”

—Well, okay, the second time, but the first time prompted the second, so it might as well have been the first.

“You’re not making any sense.”

—Look we dogs are big on routine, we like to know what’s happening and when. Things that happen regularly become traditional, and traditionally, we like to have as many traditions as possible directing our existence. It makes us feel comfortable, safe.

“I see. So, because you were let up on the bed one morning, now that’s the only time you can repeat that?”

—Something like that.

“But shouldn’t part of the tradition be ‘getting permission’ like the first time?”

—I didn’t want to disturb you and I felt we had an understanding.

“Uh huh.”

—It’s a very important tradition, you know, I’m not sure you should be questioning it.

“Right.”

—It keeps you safe, too.

“Yeah, I’ve never felt so secure.”

—See?

“I don’t know, it just seems like you’re taking advantage.”

—Never.

“Oh, so it’s a sacrifice for you to have to get up on the bed every morning?”

—As a fierce but loyal watchdog (Barkmark still pending) I don’t know the meaning of the word sacrifice.

“All in a day’s work?”

—That’s right.

January 9, 2009

—And remember to feed the dog.

“You’ve already been fed.”

—No way! When did that happen?

“About an hour ago.”

—Surely you jest.

“I can’t believe you’re actually trying this gambit.”

—Nothing ventured . . . I suppose . . .

“You know, I’ve noticed that you lick yourself a lot.”

—So?

“Isn’t that kind of cat-like? All that tongue-grooming?

— . . .

“Well?”

—Well what?

“Aren’t you going to answer me?”

—About what?

“Being cat-like, the licking of your paws and such. You’re just going to ignore me?”

—What?

January 7, 2009

—What’s the deal with She With Whom I Abide?

“It’s all your fault.”

—What?

“She was going up the stairs to get you a treat and her knee went out on her in a manner yet to be determined.”

—How’s that my fault?

“Your treat, your fault.”

—She wasn’t really going to get me a treat. Was she?

“Sure. She felt bad you had to stay outdoors so long yesterday.”

—That was indeed terrible.

“Yeah, well, her knee is paying for it.”

—But . . . but . . .

“Ah lighten up: I was just jivin’ ya: the knee thing started weeks ago when she slipped on a hill behind her parents’ house while we were looking for an Xmas tree.”

—Oh. That wasn’t very nice blaming me.

“I know. I apologize.”

—Apology will be accepted along with a biscuit, which will ease my emotional trauma.

“Of course.”

January 5, 2009

[Editor’s Note: Lewis learns that a screenplay may divert attention away from “his” bark.]

—Oh no, now my bark is really going to get the short stick and my well-deserved celebrity will be postponed indefinitely.

“What are you moaning about?”

—This movie deal thing.

“Hey, nothing’s happened yet: it could all be a mirage.”

—Oh, but even if, you’ll still be fussing with that and not my work.

“Your work? Where do you get such delusions: I’m doing all the work, you just lie around complaining all the time.”

—I beg to differ: it is my scintillating conversation you are seeking to capture with your feeble talents.

“Oh, and now you’re insulting me: that’s a real good way of keeping a partnership flourishing . . . and I use the term ‘partnership’ loosely given the one-sided nature of this one.

—I can see you’re being unreasonable again. So, go ahead, become a big-time Hollywood screenwriter, ignore the little people you’ve stepped all over on the way to the top, forget your roots, deny your initial humble aspirations in favor of being a snooty flaming stuck-up cat-hole . . .

“Cat-hole?”

—You heard me: and I meant every word of it.