“You have be more careful, Lewis, you almost dived face first into the cement this morning.”
—I did not.
“Yes, you did: you were in such a hurry to get down the steps you nearly missed the last couple and if you had you’d have a very sore nose right now.”
—It was nothing: a little near-slip, nothing drastic.
“You’re not a spry young dog anymore: you got to slow down: it’s not like you’d get that biscuit any faster since you’d still have to wait for me to open the food barrel anyway.
—I’m just fine, thank you.
“All right, if you say so, but if you get pizza-faced one of these days, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
—You’re going to serve me pizza?
“No . . .”
—Because how did you know that I love pizza more than anything?
“I’m not serving . . .”
—The combination of crunchy dough and delicately cooked meats is this dog’s idea of paradise, even the vegetables are just right and my stomach just rumbles with pleasure.
“That’s not all that rumbles after you eat pizza: you become particularly malodorous a few hours later.”
—So, when’s the pizza arriving?
“It isn’t: pizza-faced means smashing your face against the concrete, you idiot, not stuffing your face with pizza. I was still warning you about hurting yourself, not announcing a menu.”
—Oh . . . that’s a little disappointing.
—Disappointment can be partially cured though by . . .
“Yeah, yeah: forget it: I’ve got an e-mail to write.”