—So, it’s true? You might be staying home more?

“Yes, it’s a possibility, but not all day like it was during the Dark Days of Unemployment.”

—Dark Days . . . ? . . . I thought it was a most excellent arrangement.

“I’m sure you did.”

—Only recently have the days been less than sunny, what with more exile time in the back-stinkin’-yard.

“And we know whom to blame for the stink.”

—As I’ve noted before, it’s not my fault that you confine me and my excremental needs; I’m perfectly willing to roam free and deposit my . . . deposits elsewhere.

“Granted, but there’s a leash law in this area and we’re not convinced you could find your way home, even if there weren’t.”

—Again with the insults: why did I imagine you staying around longer in the morning would be a good thing?

“I have no idea.”

—As far as finding my way home, I know where my biscuits reside . . . and speaking of biscuits, you could easily absolve yourself of your cruelty by liberating one, or two.

“Two? My, haven’t you become ambitious.”

—A dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do.

“Hey, that was rude, waking me up with a footlicking.”

—Are you talking to me?

“Who else, bozo, I highly doubt anyone else is going to be up at this hour, much less licking my feet.”

—Yes, well, can we just chalk it up to an instinctual impulse?

“Nothing about trying to fool me into feeding you again?”

—I’m shocked, shocked I tell you, to hear such accusations.

“Right.”

—Not that that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“Yeah, well, She With Whom You Abide clued me in with a note.”

—Curse your human writing and curse the log from which the paper pulp was made.

“Temper, temper.”

—If you only knew the full canine loathing for that accursed tool . . .

“I have an idea.”

—I doubt it.

“Say, switching topics, which I know will be difficult for you, if you call her She With Whom You Abide, what do you call me?”

—I’d rather not say.

“Why, is it insulting?”

—Hardly . . . it’s . . . uh . . . descriptive, that’s all.

“C’mon, cough it up.”

—It’s kind of long in human.

“C’mon.”

—He Who Is Most Likely to Provide Many Biscuits.

“I see.”

—That’s the short version.

“Uh huh, why don’t you just call me Biscuit Sucker and leave it at that?”

—Because that would be insulting and you know the old saying about biting the hand . . .

“I think there should be a saying about licking the feet.”

[Editor’s Note: Lewis learns that the Editor and She With Whom He Abides are celebrating their second anniversary.]

—And I guess it’s our 14th year anniversary in dog years, which mean 14 celebratory biscuits.

“We’ve talked about this before, remember? The 1 human year = 7 dog years calculation is inaccurate.”

—What do you mean?

“You’ve forgotten?”

—Maybe. Remind me just in case.

“All right, but only because you look so pathetic right now. So, actually, it’s more like 15 years for your first year, 8 or so for the second, and then 3 ½ for every subsequent year, or something like that.”

—So that means I get 23 biscuits?

“No one said anything about you getting any biscuits.”

—I did.

“Besides you, and no, that doesn’t mean you get 23: the first two years reflect how fast a puppy becomes an adult: you were already an adult when I first met you, so the two years I’ve known you equal 7 years, at the most.”

—I’ll take 7 biscuits, then.

“You might get one, if you’re lucky.”

—Not very sentimental are you? But okay, I’ll take one biscuit.

“You probably should do something about that one-track mind of yours: there’s more to life than biscuits.”

—True. What do you have in the refrigerator?

“And in case you’re wondering, the Subject line of this message I’m writing—‘Another despicable con-job’— refers to you, Mr. Dancing-Like-You’re-Starving.”

—Dogs gotta do what dogs gotta do.

“So you admit your perfidy?”

—Well, I wouldn’t give it such an evil-sounding label, but sure, I was hoping I might score another meal: after all, it’s a proven fact that I am criminally underfed on a regular basis.

“Proven fact?”

—Yes, the International Council on Proper Canine Nourishment has definitively established that I don’t get enough to eat.

“An international council? I find it difficult to believe that you merit such attention.”

—The Council is, if you’ll forgive me, dogged in its attempts to make certain that every dog, wherever he or she may be, gets fed properly.

“I see.”

—Yes, so if you want to escape the inevitable censure that will be yours unless you reform your ways, I’d increase my rations.

“Censure? What does that mean?”

—Let’s just say you’ll be hearing a lot more yapping from some nearby little dogs . . .