“Just to let you know, She With Whom You Abide is a little hurt by your recent behavior.”

—What do you mean?

“You’re acting as though you’re more my dog than her dog.”

—I am?

“Yes. For instance, two days ago when she was working in the basement and I had left the house, you were nowhere to be found, but as soon as I came back and joined her in the basement, suddenly you were there making a nuisance of yourself in a very cramped space.”

—Oh.

“How do you explain that?”

—I hadn’t really noticed.

“Obviously, but I think her feelings have been a little bruised. After all, she’s housed you and fed you for nearly 10 years, while I’ve been around barely one. And while I occasionally fill your food bowl, she’s the one still responsible for your food and shelter, you know.”

—Oh.

“Yes, oh. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself. This appearance of switching allegiances is not very becoming and does not reflect well on your entire species. Surely, you do not want to be responsible for the saying: Fickle as a dog?”

—No, of course not.

“Well then, get a clue, quit being an ungrateful pooch.”

—I’m not ungrateful.

“Then do a better job of demonstrating that.”

—It’s just that you’re going through difficult times, I spend more time with you these days, and I feel more responsible . . .

“You’re not responsible for my current situation.”

—I know, but in my job as a supportive canine companion, you seem to require my services more.

“Oh, so this is all my fault?”

—Yes, I mean, no . . . it’s no one’s fault . . . I instinctively gravitate toward the most . . . um, needy party . . .

“I see.”

—I don’t mean to insult you or embarrass you, you understand.

“Of course not: I always look forward to having a dog take pity on poor little old me.

—I’ll try to do better from now on. As far as She With Whom I Abide, I mean.

“Okay.”

—I’m glad we had this little chat . . . isn’t it time for a biscuit?

“Looking a little creaky going up those stairs, aren’t you Muffin-Licker?”

—It’s the weather, the cold sort of tightens up my joints. And I’m not a muffin-licker.

“Only because I haven’t put a muffin anywhere near the vicinity of your tongue lately.”

—Even then, I wouldn’t bother even sniffing your stupid muffin.

“I didn’t realize dogs were such big fans of denial.”

—I’m getting weary of all this obsession with muffins. Would you please just rub my head for about an hour?

“What do you know, that’s on my To Do List. I just wrote She With Whom You Abide that it was time to quote, ‘pet the needy dog,’ unquote.”

—The needy dog? Why must you continually insult me? What have I ever done that suggests neediness?

“Um, the way you put your muzzle in my lap when I’m using my computer and stare at me with eyes begging for attention and you won’t leave until I scratch your ears for 60+ minutes?”

—That’s not neediness, that’s just being affectionate. Besides, you spend way too much time with that computer thing, it’s unhealthy. Dogs in laps are much better than machines in laps: it’s a scientifically proven fact!

“I didn’t realize you were into science.”

—When it supports canine livelihood, I’m all for it.

“Enlightened self-interest, then?”

—Absolutely, though surely you’ve noticed that what’s in my interest is almost always in your interest, as well.

“No, I really hadn’t noticed that.”

—It’s true: for instance, if you give me a biscuit right now, I’ll be very happy and that will make you very happy.

“I’m happy when you’re happy?”

—Haven’t you noticed? I sure have.

“Well, if it involves biscuits, I’m sure you have.”

—Want to try it out?

“Not right now.”

—I’ll never understand why humans persist in pursuing unhappiness . . .

—You think you have it hard, have you noticed how cold it is in the mornings? I can barely chew my food I’m so cold. And patrolling the perimeter is a lot more difficult when there’s frost on the grass. Plus, the enemies on the other side of the fence are even more idiotic than usual this time of year. And birds—everywhere!—plucking sunflower seeds. It’s just madness out there, madness!

“I feel for you; is it time for you to return to your duties?”

—Why, are you leaving? So soon?

“Pretty soon.”

—Um, I think I have to recuperate a little bit longer, I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.

“None of us, my muffin-licking friend, none of us are.”

“So, why do you always run off to eat the red biscuit? Do you imagine I’ll steal it back or something?”

—I’m a modest dog and prefer to eat in private.

“Which is why you practice such shameless begging in public?”

—It’s unfortunate that to meet my caloric needs I have to resort to such behavior, but apparently there are those who think nothing of starving a helpless creature, heartlessly depriving him the food necessary to operate at optimum levels.

“So if you were fed more you’d be able to lie around sleeping even better than you do now?”

—I won’t even dignify that slur with a response.

“It’s time for a nap anyway, isn’t it?”

—As a matter of fact, I do feel a little tired . . . probably just weakness from being famished all the time.

“Undoubtedly. Have a good nap, you’ll be going outside soon anyway because I’ve got an appointment.”

—What?

“Yep, out into the cold in just a few minutes.”

—No no no no, can’t I stay in?

“Sorry, you know the rules.”

—First you starve me, then you banish me and freeze me.

“Life’s rough.”

—Yes, for a dog it’s just one trial after another.

“You’d hear music right about now, but my world’s smallest violin is in the shop.”

“So, if it isn’t the old Muffin-Licker! How you doing, Muffer, which, just in case you’re a little slow on the uptake, is short for Muffin-Licker, Muffin-Licker.”

—How much longer will I have to put up with this indignity?

“Oh, probably as long as you’re a Muffin-Licker, Muffer old boy, which could be . . . forever, since once you cross the Muffin-Licking line, you can never go back: once a Muffin-Licker, always a Muffin-Licker.”

—This could get old really fast.

“Well, I could just call you Lumpy, or Lumpster, or Lumpkins, or Lumpalooza . . .”

—Meaning you have no shame and are willing to tease a poor creature about a physical infirmity over which he has no control?

“You’re right, that’s cruel. Teasing a poor creature about something it does have control over, like its tongue, is far better.”

—It wasn’t my fault.

“Oh, so you’re finally admitting to the muffin-licking, Muffin-Licker?”

—Not exactly, but for the sake of argument, say the alleged event did in fact take place; under such circumstances, any alleged muffin-licking would definitely be your fault.

“My fault?”

—Or the muffin’s fault.

“Let me get this straight: a proud, strong, independent member of the canine species has been, allegedly, victimized by a pumpkin muffin? Muffins can’t even move of their own volition, Muffer.”

—True, but they can send out irresistible messages of tantalization. If, and I repeat, if my tongue violated the muffin-space, it was because the muffin engaged in illegal, immoral, and unconscionable entrapment schemes that should be condemned and rejected by every right-thinking mammal.

“Be that as it may, I’m still not very happy that you also try to blame me for your permission-less muffin licking.”

—I’ll withdraw that suggestion: it was absolutely the muffin’s fault.

“If you say so, Muffin-Licker, who am I to say thee nay? Particularly since the muffin is no longer around to defend itself.”

—We could question another of its kind, since there’s a large bag of those nefarious muffins on the counter . . .

“Good try, Muffin-Licker, but no dice.”

—Haven’t you forgotten something?

“What?”

—Look what time it is: you haven’t even begun writing down our daily conversations.

“Good heavens! My mind is so befogged with exhaustion and the need to finish this job application . . .”

—Good thing I’m around to provide the necessary reminders.

“Indeed, thank you.”

—So how about a biscuit as a way of compensating me for my . . .

“Wait a minute: this from someone who licked my muffin without permission?

—Um . . . was that your muffin?

“When have you ever had a muffin? Dogs don’t get muffins, unless they’re dropped accidentally.”

—As I recall, the muffin that I . . . allegedly, mind you . . . licked, that muffin was on the floor.

“It was not: it was on the coffee table, right next to the TV remote.”

—It was pretty close to the floor: I mean, if you had been standing up, it would have been closer to the floor than it was to your mouth . . .

“Your defense is weakening by the second: you licked my muffin: admit it.”

—I’d say ownership is determined mostly by possession, and as I recall, the alleged muffin, that I allegedly licked, ended up in my stomach.

“So, that’s your new plan, eh? Lick everything so that it ends up in your alleged stomach?”

—Of course not. It hasn’t been proven that I licked anything in the first place.

“Whatever: no alleged biscuit for you, in any case. And maybe no alleged food for you tomorrow, either.”

—Now, now let’s not do anything one might regret.

“One—meaning you?”

—Allegedly.

—Instead of fussing around with your effete poetry projects, you should be worrying about finishing my bark: your priorities need some adjusting.

“Getting a bit pushy for someone who couldn’t type a word even if the keyboard was made from kibble.”

—A kibble keyboard? That makes no sense at all.

“Exactly. Because you’d simply devour the thing, thereby completely hampering your ability to compose anything.”

—What are you saying?

“That you should be a little less officious and a tad more deferential to the person who is helping bring your voice to the masses. We’re a team, but I don’t recall any one making you the coach.”

Lewis doesn’t respond for a long time, but I can tell he’s struggling with the urge to lord it over me. Finally . . .

—Do they really make keyboards out of kibble?

—I didn’t appreciate you joking this morning with She With Whom I Abide about me getting laid off. I’m ailing somewhat, as you know, but I’ve served this household faithfully for many years, which is even more in dog years.

“That was a good joke.”

—Yes, I can keep my sense of humor, even in the face of insults.

“Hey, I was just kidding, no one’s going to get rid of you. You’re way too important. And besides, you don’t cost that much, unless you factor in all the time required to pick up your poop.”

—Again with the insults. As if it’s my fault I’m trapped behind a fence!

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Geez, a little sensitive today aren’t we?”

—You would be, too, if you were told that you wouldn’t be allowed to sleep with the rest of the pack ever again.

“Look there’s just not enough room in the bed for everybody, and since you have such a nice alternative bed . . .”

—If it’s so nice, why don’t you sleep on it once in a while?

“It’s too small for me, it’s just the right size for you.”

—I suppose. Still, it’s kind of humiliating getting used to being invited to the pack bed and then later, for no reason, to be ignominiously exiled.

“I understand, but that doesn’t mean you’re any less important.”

—Truly?

“Absolutely: you’re an indispensable member of the pack, of the household . . . unless dog food prices really start to escalate, of course . . . then we might have to reconsider . . .”

—Hey! Hey! Enough already.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

—It better not.

“So, you tried to trick me this morning and make me feed you again?”

Lewis does not respond.

“Good thing I read the note from She With Whom You Abide warning me against such shenanigans.”

Lewis mumbles something that I can’t understand.

“What? What was that?”

—Nothing. Just a canine curse damning that wretched writing you humans use to deprive dogs of all they deserve.

“Like two breakfasts?”

—Among other things.

“That wretched writing is helping save all our conversations for that book you’re so eager to finish.”

—True, but when it prevents me from eating, I find it difficult to admire or appreciate.

[Editor’s Note: In honor of Thanksgiving, the usual sequence of  The Lewis Letters will be interrupted to bring you this special holiday memory. Regularly scheduled blog programming will return tomorrow.]

“And what are you thankful for, Lewis?”

—That soon I might be able to finagle turkey scraps and stuffing fragments.

“Always about the stomach for you, eh?”

—C’mon, give me a break. Even you humans recognize that Thanksgiving is mostly about the food. Besides, stomachs are very important.

“Undoubtedly.”

—A wise dog once told a story about how the other parts of the body got upset at the stomach because it just sat there and didn’t seem to do anything, so they stopped feeding it, and then, what do you know, they all suffered.

“A wise dog told that story?”

—Yes.

“Sounds very familiar, similar to a fable I’ve heard before.”

—Probably you humans stole the story from us: you do that all the time.

“We do not. Most of us can’t even understand canine creatures.”

—Which makes one wonder how we can have such stimulating conversations . . . it certainly can’t be because you’re smarter than average . . .

“Hey! Are insults a good way to celebrate Thanksgiving?”

—I suppose not . . . so, when’s the turkey going in the oven?

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”