[Editor’s Note: A period of shudder-filled reminiscences of the horrible snow-filled winter of 2008 preceded the following.]

—Agreed: patrolling became literally impossible.

“I remember your valiant efforts to navigate while practically being buried in snow.”

—You did provide some trails for me eventually, but even still . . .

“Yes, it was a bad deal all the way around.”

—Some bacon could help dull the unpleasant memories . . .

“Fake bacon, you mean?”

—Whatever: it’s as yummy as bacon, not that I’d really know since I only get to lick bacon grease and never get the actual bacon.

“And the whining begins anew . . .”

—Another day of respite from the frigid life of a tortured companion, thank Dog!

“Give me a break, you’re not a tortured companion—if anything you’re spoiled rotten.”

—I’m not going to argue with you: we’ll just have to agree to disagree.

“Fine, though I guess this means no biscuits for you all day.”

—What?

“Well, you’ve firmly established the tradition that you only get them when we have to bribe you to go out or reward you for coming in after a long, torturous day, and since neither will happen today . . . sorry.”

—That’s not fair.

“As Jimmy Carter once said: Life isn’t fair.”

—Who’s Jimmy Carter?

“Before your time.”

—Come to think of it, maybe there’s time for a quick patrol around the yard . . .

“Nice try, bub, but no dice and no biscuit.”

—I’ll just lie here in front of the heating vent in case you change your mind.

—Whew, what a relief.

“What?”

—You’re typing a message to She With Whom I Abide, which means you’re staying home and I won’t have to suffer arctic temperatures today.

“Sorry, I’ve got some appointments today, so you might have to accept a biscuit bribe and suffer the consequences of your enthralldom to your stomach.”

—Oh please, as if you’d let me stay in even if I refused your paltry bribery.

“True.”

—Are you really going to banish me to the severe wind and zero temperatures?

“Well, probably not, it’s not like you could do something you weren’t supposed to . . . like, say, hop up on the bed.”

—What makes you think I even care to do such a thing?

“She With Whom You Abide told me how you got up there last night . . . ”

— . . .

“Oh, don’t want to talk about it, eh?”

—Let’s just say I find it reprehensible that you’ve created a bed that can alter its height in order to thwart dog leaping.

“The bed was raised some time ago, yes, but you’ve also, since that happened, successfully (albeit somewhat clumsily) been able to jump up on it.”

—Yes, when the bed has been lowered.

“What do you mean? Since the initial increase, the height has not changed.”

—So you say, but if that were true, I wouldn’t have trouble making the leap any time I wanted to.

“So, you’re accusing us of adding a hydraulic system—or something—that can arbitrarily raise or lower the bed?”

—Exactly.

“Are you nuts? Why would we do that?”

—You mean, why would you torture an innocent creature such as myself? Examine your conscience, that’s all I have to say.