[Editor’s Note: After hurting my back at work (the result of attempting to help a large person move from one place to another), I tease Lewis . . . again.]
“Only a few more minutes, dog, and then out you go.
—You can’t be serious.
“Sorry, I’m giving up a day off to go work, so you have to give up a day of inside leisure.”
—That doesn’t make a bit of sense. You’re “giving up a day off”? What’s that supposed to mean? You had yesterday off, right?
“Yes. I called off, as they say, because of my back injury.”
—And you could have this day off, too, but you’ve decided not to take it?
“Well, sort of. I mean, I could call in sick, again.”
—But you’ve decided not to?
—Aren’t you still injured?
“A little tender, but it’s manageable.”
—So, you’re really not giving up a day off, you’re just not taking another one?
“I suppose that’s a trifle more accurate.”
—But, basically, all the suffering I’m about to endure is because you got hurt helping a fat person.
“Only in the most tangential way.”
—I hate fat people.
“Now, now: you don’t even know every fat person; some of them probably like dogs very much.”
—Hmph, as if I care.
“Besides, it’s no longer considered polite to call fat people fat.”
—Hmph, as if I care. Again.
“They’re just people whose height and weight have suffered an unfortunate shift in proportionality.”
“Anyway, it’s a beautiful day out, so what’s your beef? You can track in more grit to deposit on the bed when you make another uninvited visit.
—That wasn’t my fault: if certain people had placed a certain bed spread in a certain way . . .
“Or if a certain dog had just refrained from taking advantage of an open door and the lax supervision of a certain downstairs resident . . .”
—Hey! That’s right: I don’t have to go outside today because She With Whom I Abide’s Puppy is back home and sleeping downstairs. Why were you pretending I’d have to go out?
“Because I was joshing you, Muffin-Licker.”
—She With Whom I Abide told you to quit teasing me.
“I know, but it’s so much fun. Have a great day. Inside.”