“You seem calmer today.”

—I’m always calm.

“Yes, except those times when you nearly break the wall open with your thumping tail hoping I’ll get up and feed you.”

—That’s my exuberant calm.

“I see, but I was trying to sleep in.”

—Why? Doesn’t the pull of your responsibilities make that difficult?

“Responsibilities?”

—You know what I mean.

“Yeah, that’s not hard to figure out: my responsibilities to your bottomless pit of a stomach.”

—See how calm I’m remaining even as you insult me?

“Remarkable. And I guess you’re admission that you were a ‘nervous wreck’ yesterday reflected your calm breakdown mode?”

—Something like that, though I believe you’re misremembering what I said.

“No doubt.”

[I mention to She With Whom Lewis Abides that “her dog is going nuts.”]

—I am not.

“What’s with the constant ‘I need to go out’ followed by an immediate ‘Let me in, let me in’ crap?”

—You forgot to feed me.

“I did not.”

—You forgot my biscuit.

“Again: I did not: you don’t get biscuits right after you’ve wolfed down

your breakfast.”

—I suppose I’m just a little unsettled by your presence.

“What?”

—I can’t figure out who’s supposed to be here and when. She With Whom I Abide leaves for days, and you put me outside when I’m barely awake, and then you stay home, and then you won’t feed me . . .

“I repeat: you’ve been fed; you eat so fast, though, you probably don’t remember chewing at all, assuming, of course, you actually ever chew.

—I’m just a nervous wreck.

“Let me guess: a biscuit would calm you down?”

—You’re smarter than you look . . .

“Hey, insulting the hand that throws the biscuit is not a wise policy.”

—Sorry.

—Speaking of feeding the dog, I feel compelled to let you know that the dog in question is not happy with his current situation.

“Which is?”

—Completely confused and uncertain: time-honored traditions and routines are being violated daily and it is upsetting my stomach.

“Not that one could tell given how quickly you wolf down your chow.”

—A purely nervous response: I’m so befuddled and anxious I have little control over my eating speed.

“I see.”

—Yes, so a soothing biscuit is probably in order.

“More food?”

—Biscuits aren’t food, really, they’re more . . . analgesic.

“Big word for a dog.”

—This dog abides with a nurse, remember?

“True.”

—So . . .?

“So . . . what?”

—The biscuit?

“No.”

—The constant cruelty I suffer isn’t good for my nerves either, you know.

“My sympathies.”

—And any minute now the idiot little dogs will start their yapping and I’ll be forced to restore order to this canine sector again.

“Better rest up for your coming labors.”

—Good idea.

—And what about my bark? You’ve stopped conversing with me and I hardly see you anymore and I haven’t heard a word about my bark for ages, which means you’ve probably decided to forget all about it, though you can’t imagine how distressed I am, particularly with all the new stupid yappy dogs that have moved in on both sides of the house that are driving me crazy, plus . . .

“You’re breathing awful hard, calm down.”

—How can I be calm when all my dreams are being buried beneath the yapping of stupid little dogs and the neglect of a formerly loyal transcriptionist, um, I mean secretary . . . uh, I mean co-author?

“Almost a nice save there . . . muffin-licker. Look, the past few weeks have been a time of transition, so just mellow out and don’t get your lump in a twist: your bark is still on the agenda and your ‘loyal’ secretary has not abandoned you.”

—Really?

“Really, though I do have some other work to do today, okay?”

—All right, I guess. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll begin napping early because I’m just a nervous wreck.

“Napping?”

—Of the eternally vigilant variety.

“Of course.”

—Call me when the biscuits are being served.

“I will.”

—Things to include on your To Do List: pay more attention to your fierce but loyal dog, quit shooing him away from your lap, scratch his ears longer and more persistently, liberate more biscuits from their boxy prison . . .

“One, I’m trying to type and your nose gets in the way and your hair gets all over the keyboard, and two, I doubt the biscuits would agree that being released from a box only to be chomped on is even close to liberation.”

—So, it’s a short liberation: freedom of any duration is preferable to tyranny.

“What a noble philosopher you’ve become.”

—Become, nothing: it’s my natural state.

“I’m too tired to pursue this line of discussion. I think the first thing I need to do is take a nap.”

—I would agree with that course of action.

“Wow. Big surprise there.”

—Aren’t you forgetting someone?

“What do you mean?”

—You are professing profound gratitude to everyone and everything but not one tiny grain of thanks to the protector of the household.

“Meaning you.”

—Who else puts their life on the line day after day, patrolling the defense perimeter, insuring that the integrity of the home will not be violated by evil, who else pursues those foolish criminals who encroach and trespass upon the sacred grounds . . . .

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You’re getting a bit carried away with the job definition aren’t you? Need I remind you that you spend about 20 hours a day on your side snoozing?”

—Snoozing? You dare call my intense level of alertness snoozing? I’d be insulted if I hadn’t heard such ignorance from you before.

“You’re not even alert enough these days to get off the couch before we open the front door.”

—Hmph.

“Did you just ‘hmph’ me?”

—Interpret it as you will; you always do anyway, never understanding the finer points, the delicate intricacies, the subtle delineations, the . . .

“Yeah, yeah, okay, enough with the purple. Thank you, Lewis, thank you, for all your hard work: what would we do without you?

—See, was that so hard?

“Of course, there’d also be no poop patrol without you . . .”

“You sure looked worried all weekend.”

—Drastic change is not something that comforts those of us of a canine persuasion.

“I was just moving a bunch of stuff into the house, and She With Whom You Abide was simply moving other stuff elsewhere: what’s the big deal?”

—Nothing.

“C’mon, quit being a mope.”

—Well, I suppose we, meaning dogs, get worried that . . . that we’ll get moved during the process.

“You mean, moved out?”

—Yes.

“Moved to a new household?”

—Maybe that, too.

“You thought there might not be room for you?”

—I guess.

“Silly dog, you’re an integral part of the household, we’d never move you. Besides we thought you’d like all the new smells that came with the move.”

—That was a little bit interesting.

“You still look a kind of sad and discombobulated.”

—It has been a nerve-wracking past few days.

“Sorry. Hey, in a few minutes I’ll have a surprise for you.”

—What?

“Remember those steaks we had on Friday?”

—Yes.

“There’s one bone left.”

—That would go a long way to making me feel better.

—How would you characterize our conversations?

“I don’t know.”

—How about “deep?”

“I’m not sure I’d call our conversations deep, exactly.”

—They’re inter-species, right?

“True.”

—Which is a rare and beautiful thing?

“I suppose.”

—So, the fact that they happen is the deep part, not necessarily the content.

“All right.”

—Though I think promoting understanding between any two individuals or groups has depth and meaning.

“Okay, you’ve made your point.”

—Truly comprehending the motivations of each other, the way different minds work: that’s important stuff.

“You mean, like figuring out why you sleep on the couch and then lie about it?”

—What? What did you say? It’s strange but suddenly I don’t understand what you’re saying at all—our communications link is breaking up—hello? hello? anybody out there?

About that lump mentioned near the end of the March 23rd post . . .

The picture above was taken soon after I met Lewis. At the time, the lump was big, but nowhere near the size it would eventually become. The lump above was the size of half of a volleyball; later it would swell to be the size of a watermelon, a rather large watermelon. A trip to the vet resulted in tests that confirmed that the lump was benign, even as it continued to grow. Removing the lump was not seriously considered, nor was it even suggested. Since Lewis clearly did not acknowledge the lump, and it did not appear to be causing any other health problems, there seemed to be no reason to intervene. While Lewis ignored the lump, it did eventually affect his ability to jump up on the bed, which distressed him greatly. However, even before the lump increased his weight by an estimated 15%, Lewis was much too big a dog to lift up onto the bed, so there was nothing we could do to relieve his stress. The couch, being much lower to the ground, remained accessible, much to the dismay of Those With Whom He Abided.

—We hardly talk anymore.

“Sorry, but responsibilities call.”

—I don’t hear them.

“Even with your super dog hearing?”

—No. They just hear the emptiness of the food bowl, the desolation of an unoccupied living room, the ice of a couch upon which no human buttock has rested, the sadness of . . .

“Wait a minute, the ‘ice of a couch’?”

—Yes, quite the poetic phrase, eh? I’m rather proud of it myself . . .

“But it also means you admit jumping up on the couch when you’re not supposed to.”

—No, it doesn’t.

“Then how do you know the couch is icy?”

—I, uh, just inferred it?

“Right.”

—No, what I meant was, I smelled that it was cold.

“You can smell temperature?”

—Didn’t you know that?

“No.”

—Then, yes, definitely, that’s what happened: I smelled the ice. The icy ice-ness.

“Wait a minute. You said you heard the icy couch.”

—A dog’s nose and ears work together. Synergistically, as it were.

“Really?”

—Oh yes. It’s almost as though there’s no difference between them, so well do they work together.

“One of these days I’m going to find out what dog noses and dog ears can actually do.”

—Who would know better than a dog?

“No one, but you’d have to be able to believe that dog.”

—Are you saying I’m lying about my nose?

“I’m saying you’re lying about the couch.”

—I guess we’ll just have to disagree about that.

“Big surprise. Hey, I also wanted to suggest that you begin taking your lump into account more: you’re knocking stuff over all the time now, and trying to squeeze into places that aren’t big enough for you and your lump.”

—What lump?