[Editor’s Note: In honor of the holiday, The Lewis Letters will again veer from strict chronology and present this brief mention of Xmas Past. A vast amount of snow fell in 2008, unlike this year’s rainy and snow-less season.]

“Do dogs celebrate Xmas?”

—Not really. We’re more an “every day is a holiday” species.

“I kinda figured that.”

—We don’t mind that sometimes we get extra treats and such this time of year, but Xmas is your thing, not ours.

“What about all this snow?”

—We’re with you on that: it sucks.

[Lewis asks me to apologize for not sending one of his conversations.]

—She With Whom I Abide depends on those daily reports! Surely yesterday must have felt like a huge void had invaded her life, rendering everything cold, gray, dreary, and sad.

“A tad melodramatic, don’t you think?”

—Not at all. If anything, I’ve understated things.

“Well, remind me what you said and I’ll send it today.”

—I forgot.

“What?”

—I’ve forgotten what I told you.

“How is that possible? Supposedly dogs remember and transmit whole books . . . barks, pardon me . . . transmit whole barks, but you’ve forgotten some idle chatter from just a few hours ago?”

—You don’t feed me enough; you’ve weakened my brain.

[After Lewis hears about plans his humans have for the weekend . . .]

—I’ll be happy to help out.

“How?”

—By providing a compelling example of blissful non-activity.

“Um, I thought you were the ever-vigilant, always-ready, hyper-aware watchdog eternally patrolling the fence to keep the household safe from evil?”

—I am.

“I don’t see how the two roles are compatible.”

—That’s because you are a mere human being, someone who aspires to dog-hood, but will, sadly, and completely, fail.

“Wait a minute, how did this get to be about me?”

—Silly human, you folks are constantly making it about you.

“I didn’t do anything . . .”

—Exactly, and we dogs must, more often than not, pick up the slack.

“What?”

—Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some power nap patrolling to do.

[Editor’s Note: Lewis overhears me admit that sometimes my cooking “lacks the necessary subtlety.”]

—Or sometimes, it’s too subtle.

“And what do you mean by that?”

—I’m talking bland, dull, unimaginative, repetitive, boring.

“I presume you’re talking about your breakfast?”

—And my lunch and my supper, since everything has been rolled into one insufficient meal per day. And you must admit, it doesn’t take a genius psychic to predict the menu of that single, solitary, inadequate, minuscule meal.

“We’ve discussed this before: your delicate constitution can’t take too much variety without exploding forth with unfortunate gaseous emissions.”

—I haven’t noticed anything.

“A skunk never smells itself.”

—There’s a skunk about? Where? Let me at him.

“There is no skunk and if there were, I certainly wouldn’t let you near him.”

—I’d be careful.

“Look, I read a story about a dog who got sprayed in the mouth, then came into the house and started drooling skunk-stink-impregnated saliva all over the rug: it apparently was not too pleasant for the humans involved.”

—All right, you’ve made your point. Who cares about skunks anyway? Just cats that smell worse than regular cats . . . but to return to our previous topic: are you sure a little variety couldn’t be added to mealtime? Or even, more meals? You guys get to eat three times a day.

“Instead you wolf down your food in 30 seconds.”

—I can tell that you are not open to discussing this calmly and rationally . . . if you need me, I’ll be over here, the one with the growling stomach.

—See, I knew She With Whom I Abide would come back.

“Only because I wrote her a really long letter in which I practically had to beg her to return.”

—You did not.

“I did: I told her how sorry you were for being an idiot and ungrateful and thoughtless and foolish and careless and mean and . . . you can top sputtering in indignation: surely you must realize that your canine devotion has been lacking.”

—Dogs have the cares of the world forever on their shoulders, but I don’t think I should have to put with your constant baloney; maybe I’ll see you later.

“Hey, no sleeping on the bed!”

“You sure have a sense of entitlement.”

—What do you mean?

“You know I’ve been sick, and surely you must have known I didn’t sleep well last night, and yet if it’s past 7:00, you’re being denied your precious breakfast and you start jumping around like a pogo stick on crack.”

—Um, I had an urgent bladder issue . . .

“You did not: you were last outside in the early a.m. because I couldn’t get to sleep.”

—Are you sure?

“Don’t give me that innocent act. Now lie down while I’m writing She With Whom You Used to Abide . . .”

—Used to?

“I keep telling you, your behavior lately is making a new puppy look pretty enticing, even one as big and rambunctious as that Kolby dog.”

—I don’t think so . . .

“You don’t sound very convincing. In fact, I think she’s even considering a kitten.”

—Now I know you’re lying: She With Whom I Abide definitely does not like cats. Like all sane creatures.

“Yeah, well, you’re making them look like the better deal, that’s all.”

— . . .

“Speaking of entitlement, what’s with you leaving the living room to go poach bed space when I’m out of the house, and when I’ve definitely not given you permission?”

—I was warming it up for you?

“Right, hours before I ever go to bed? Besides, you were warming up the wrong side.”

—Um, one of those grapes you’re eating would really help me think about this more clearly.

“Just lie down Entitlement Boy.”

“What with all the whining and yipping: you sound like a puppy.”

—It’s freakin’ freezing outside today.

“Yeah, it is a little cold.”

—A little? My fur got frosty.

“It did not.”

—It would have if you’d left me out there any longer . . . so, you’re sick?

“You didn’t notice? Some dogs can detect tumors or heart attacks and I’m laid up in bed all day and you didn’t notice I was sick?”

—You did seem a little on the pale side, but I thought you were just missing She With Whom I Abide.

“Well, I do, but that doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to vomit all day.”

—Oh. Feeling better?

“Yes, no thanks to you.”

—I kept you company.

“You always do that.”

—Which is probably why you aren’t sick that often.

“You prevent disease, what, by frightening germs away with your fierce napping?”

—I can see that you’re still recovering and you’re saying stuff you don’t really believe.

“Right, that must be it.”

—I’ll be right here if you need me.

“Nap away, Lewis, nap away.”

[Time passes.]

“Oh, She With Whom You Abide says to scratch you under the chin.”

—Thank her for me.

“I will.”

—She is coming back soon, right?

“She hasn’t decided. She saw some pictures of cute labradoodle puppies in the paper and wonders if perhaps her old ungrateful dog is now replaceable.”

—Don’t even joke about such things.

“Who said I’m joking?”

—You’re obviously still very ill; drink lots of fluids.

“So, I noticed that you retired to your own bed before I went upstairs last night.”

—You fell asleep in front of the TV and I didn’t want to disturb you.

“You’re on a schedule or something? After midnight you need to go sleep elsewhere?”

—I suppose you could say that I am fond of routine.

“I was impressed that you didn’t presume to sleep on the big bed.”

—I’ve been hearing some complaining about alleged sand that I allegedly transported to the sheets.

“Allegedly? So you were not responsible?”

—I can’t see how I could have been: I haven’t been to a beach in years.

“I think sand can be found in places other than beaches.”

—If you say so; the fact remains that I don’t go where I’m not wanted.

“I could argue with you about that, but as you seem a bit out of sorts over She With Whom You Abide’s absence, I’ll let it go.”

—When is she returning?

“Maybe never: I think you’ve driven her away with your ingratitude.”

—I have not.

“We’ll see.”

—Given how sad I am, do you think my mood would be improved by a biscuit?

“Probably, but you ain’t getting one from me.”

—Wake me if you change your mind.

“Tomorrow, you know, She With Whom You Abide will be going away.”

—So, she goes away almost every day.

“Yeah, but tomorrow she won’t be coming back.”

—Ever?

“For about six days.”

—Six days?

“Yep, your bad behavior and lack of consideration and proper gratitude have finally driven her from the house; I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

—This isn’t my fault.

“In fact, who knows, she may never come back given your poor attitude.”

—I haven’t done anything.

“Exactly: no show of proper respect, constant displays of favoritism to the wrong human, the crimes just keep on coming.”

—But . . . but . . .

“And I’m thinking I’ll probably have to leave you out in the back yard for long stretches of time, too.”

—Why?

“Just because. Teach you a lesson.”

—But. . . but . . .

“Sorry, sometimes that’s just the way it goes.”

—But . . . but . . .

“No, you are not coming into the house with that vile, slobber-drenched rawhide bone. I know, it’s delectable, but no dice.”

Lewis can’t respond because he refuses to drop the rawhide bone—he just looks hurt that his dear friend, the Slobber-Drenched Rawhide Bone, is not going to be allowed in the house. He implores me with the saddest eyes he can manage.

“No, and that’s final. I’m walking away now, and if you want to come in—without the bone!—drop it and bark.”

Even more imploring looks.

“Bye.”

Two minutes later, the strangled high-pitched yelp that means:

—Let me in, already! Please!