“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.”