December 8, 2009

—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.

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