“My, aren’t you the needy one today: you just can’t rest sticking your schnoz into my crotch.”

—Just being neighborly.

“So that’s what you call it.”

—Simple friendliness.

“No anxiety about me slipping out the front door after depositing you in the back yard?”

—Nope, not at all.

“Right.”

—Um, you aren’t about to slip out, are you?

“Not immediately, no.”

—But later?

“Possibly, and if so, I’m going to try an old trick.”

—And that is . . .?

“Getting you out the back door without have to bribe you with a biscuit.”

—Hmph. Good luck with that.

“Ooooo, the defiant dog is back: no more friendliness—hey! watch it! you almost pulled my computer off the desk! Uwrap your paw from the power cord, you doofus!”

“I’ve probably asked you about this before, but what’s the deal with the next door little dogs and the cats they live with?”

—. . .

“Did you hear what I asked you?”

—. . .

“Don’t like talking about the cats, do you?”

—Not particularly.

“What does Mikey say about the cats?”

—A bunch of crap, mostly. Let’s just say that living with cats has merely magnified and exacerbated his Little Dog Complex. He talks big, but my guess is that he doesn’t mess with them.

“Yeah, they’re bigger than he is anyway. And cats don’t need to be big: I saw a kitten claw a full-grown, half-Huskie mutt right on the nose once and that dog gave up the fight immediately.”

—Please, I’d rather not hear your tall tales about cats.

“Tall tales? Are you suggesting that my story isn’t factual?”

—A kitten vs. a full-grown dog? I don’t think so.

“You might not want to think so, but it’s true: happened in Alaska, in the late 60s.”

—Whatever . . . can we please stop talking about this? I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.

“Right: nap number one coming up.”

[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?

“Yes.”

—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.”

—Hmph.

“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.”

—Hmph.

“You certainly were being defiant last night.”

—To what do you refer?

“Oh, don’t go all formal on me Mr. Jump-Up-On-The-Bed-Without-an-Invitation.”

—Bah. So?

“Such an attitude, what’s happened to you? You didn’t even exit the bed when threatened with a hanger on your sorry butt.”

—It takes more than a stupid plastic hanger to frighten me.

“Are you have a mid-life crisis or something, trying to relive your rebellious younger dog years?”

—No, I’ve just adopted a Take-What-I-Deserve Strategy.

“And what brought that about?”

—If the humans with whom I abide have decided to daily send me outdoors into the cold, I figure I deserve some recompense and I don’t care how I get it. Why should you two get exclusive rights to the bed? I deserve comfort, too.

“You have your own bed.”

—A piddly pitiful pillow crammed in a corner: if I could spit, I’d shower that minuscule muffin with saliva.

“So, I guess this means you won’t be needing me to provide food or biscuits or water: you’ll just be taking them whenever and however?”

—Let’s not get hasty . . .

“Just a word of warning, Lewis, I’m getting busier, which means, I’m afraid, less time spent with the dog, too.”

—What?

“I simply won’t have much time to do whatever we do together, anymore.”

—What?

“Everything will have to be cut back.”

—What?

“Even feeding times: probably, I’ll only have time to feed you once every other day or so, and biscuit distribution will fall dramatically.”

—What?

“Sorry, but that’s the way it is: the leisure class suffers when the working class seeks more work.”

—What?

“You’ll survive, just eat more grass.”

—What?

“I know, you’re in shock. Just take another nap and relax.”

—What?

[Editor’s Note: Sadly, mere print cannot possibly capture the face behind the “Whats” featured in today’s post. Lewis had mastered a look of complete and total stupefaction, as though he’d just been walloped in the face with a large halibut, and it always cracked me up. The “What?-look” often appeared when Lewis was being asked to exit the house when he did not want to. It was incredibly difficult to maintain a firm, stern, forceful demeanor when confronted by Lewis’s complete disbelief and incomprehension at being told to leave his warm home for a cold and forbidding back yard. Also, sadly, I never was able to get a photo of the “What?-Look,” leaving, as my only option, a series of “whats” and this note.]