“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.

“I’m sure.”

—Disappointment can be partially cured though by . . .

“Yeah, yeah: forget it: I’ve got an e-mail to write.”

[Editor’s Note: Lewis learns that I have a lot to do.]

—Which means my bark will forever be unbarked.

“Delayed perhaps, but not abandoned.”

—It might as well be abandoned, given how long it takes you to finish things, like that Writers Group project you dithered with for who knows how long.

[Editor’s Note: And with which I’m still dithering!]

“I just like to do things right: rushing things promotes sloppiness.

—At this point, I’d prefer a sloppy finish to never-achieved perfection.

“Yes, your ability to delay gratification is well-known.”

—I live in the moment, for the moment, and I’m not ashamed of it.

“Obviously.”

—You know what? Stop talking to me and finish whatever you’re going to finish so you can begin procrastinating over my bark again, okay?

“Okay.”

—Um, a biscuit while I’m waiting?

“You wish.”

[Editor’s Note: After I’ve mowed a message (“I <heart> U”) into the backyard lawn, Lewis adds some . . . punctuation.]

“Hey, I noticed you’ve left your . . . um . . . ‘calling card,’ or shall we say, ‘dumping card’ on the heart I carved in the lawn with the lawnmower for She With Whom You Abide.”

—Oh, is that what that is? I thought it was an arrowhead.

“Well, yeah, I could have done a better job, and made it more heart-like, but you’re avoiding the issue: you pooped in the middle of her heart.”

—I did?

“Don’t play innocent: that wasn’t very nice.”

—I guess . . .

“You guess?”

—Couldn’t it be seen as a . . . greeting, or my way of acknowledging your message and seconding it, a way of adding my own . . . heart-felt sentiments?

“Pretty lame: I seriously doubt what you left came from your heart.”

—I suppose it could be misinterpreted.

“You think?”

—You think she’ll notice?

“After she receives this message she will.”

—Yeah, and who do I have to thank for that? Cursed writing.

“Hey, don’t blame me: you’re the one who did the squatting.”

—But I didn’t know it was a heart until now.

“I still think you have some explaining to do.”

—How about: the yard’s really not that big?

“Again, lame.”

—It’s not easy being a dog forced to roam in such a restricted space.

“Whatever. Next time just think . . . and look . . . before you poop.”

—I think I’ll look for a place to nap, if you don’t mind.

“Typical.”

“So, we had a little accident last night?”

—What?

“The dog barf on the rug.”

—Oh, that. Yeah. Sorry. Though the fault lies with you.

“How’s that?”

—You starve me so much, I’ve been reduced to eating grass like . . . like a cow. And the grass upset my stomach.

“Wait a minute. You’d eat grass anyway. All dogs eat grass.”

—Perhaps, but I’ve been forced to eat far more grass than normal because of the hunger pangs I suffer nearly every minute of every day.

“I see. So, I should be apologizing to you?”

—No, that’s not necessary, but a little increase in my rations would be appreciated.

“I’ll discuss it with She With Whom You Abide, but don’t get your hopes up.”

—How about a biscuit to tide me over?

“Don’t push it.”

—Speaking of alert, have you noticed how alert I am?

“Can’t say that I’ve detected any difference in your snooze rate, no.”

—Ha, ha. Always with the nap jokes. Don’t you ever tire of them? . . . Get it? “tire?” “nap?”

“Uh, yeah. Pun noted.”

—You don’t seem amused.

“Let’s just say your comedian skills don’t rise to the level of your watchdog skills . . . and we both know how hard it is to get you to rise to anything . . . get it?”

—Barely. Let’s just say, using a classic dog aphorism, that you telling me I’m not funny is like a little dog telling me I’m annoying.

“Ow. That’s harsh.”

—If the poop smells . . . as we say . . .