—What’s going on?

“It’s time for bed.”

—And yet you’re writing e-mail?

“Times have changed.”

—Have they ever: I’m always confused about who’s going to be where and when.

“And that will continue.”

—You really know how to hurt a dog.

“Sorry.”

—I think I’ll go lie down.

“You do that.”

—Come get me when things return to normal.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you’ll return before I come get you.”

—How do you figure?

“Think about it. Here’s a clue: your stomach will be your guide.”

—Now I’m even more depressed.

“How so?”

—Given how infrequently and inadequately you feed me . . .

“Go lie down and quit whining.”

—I don’t whine.

“You have your story, I have mine.”

—Fine.

“. . .”

—Well?

“Well what?”

—It’s your turn.

“My turn to what?”

—Rhyme.

“What?”

—Whine / mine / fine . . . ball’s in your court.

“But, sadly, it’s outside the line. Now quit bothering me.”