“We’re worried about you, buddy.”

—Me? Why?

“Two days in a row you haven’t finished your breakfast.”

—Oh, that’s rich. Day after day, week after week, month after month, you harass me about my supposedly massive appetite, my apparent gluttony, my alleged overeating, my constant (though still unproven) begging for biscuits, but if I leave one tiny nugget of blando-dog food in my bowl, suddenly you’re worried about me?

“Well, you have to admit it is a little out of character: rarely does your bowl have much of anything in it except frozen dog slobber.”

—Even in July?

“You know what I mean, and you’re avoiding the subject, though I did note the beginning of a pre-emptive strike: are you claiming your food has just become too bland to enjoy?”

—Maybe.

“You don’t like the new brand we started giving you?”

—Maybe.

“You’re being pretty evasive about all this.”

—Maybe.

“So you’d—maybe?—not even want a biscuit right now?”

—May . . . . I mean, sure, hand it over.

“Ah, signs of the old Lewis . . . maybe later.”

—Piker.