“And you! What do you have to say for yourself now that I have concrete proof that you snooze on the sofas when we leave you inside when we go out.”
“Playing the innocent naïf, eh? It won’t work: you’ve been busted. Does sprawling on my clothes remind you of anything?”
“How about clothes that were draped over the back of the sofa but somehow ended up scrunched up on the seat of the couch, suspiciously warm, and covered with dog hair?”
—Sorry, I have no idea what you’re referring to.
“Prevaricate all you want, beast, but from now on I think we’ll always put you outside, even if we’re only going to be gone for a very short time.”
—That seems harsh.
“What’s harsh is the possibility of your toenails puncturing the sofa.”
—It’s not my fault if my toenails are too long . . .
“Don’t go there, you blame-shifter, you hate getting your nails trimmed.”
—Okay, point taken, but I still claim that even if, and I emphasize the “if,” I did take the occasional nap on the sofa, there’s no real harm done, and sometimes new clothes need a dog’s touch.
“So you admit it.”
—If, remember, I said if.