“The other day, when you asked whether I was a cat sympathizer, it had sort of an ominous tone.”

—It should: being a cat-sympathizer is about the worst thing anyone can be (other than actually being a cat, of course). But I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt which is why I used the word ‘sympathizer’ and not <at this point, Lewis gives a short bark that begins and ends with a throaty growl>.

“And what does that mean?”

—The short version would be ‘cat-lover,’ but a more accurate translation would probably be something like: ‘scentless mate of a skunk and spineless slave to a foul wretched beast with inscrutable eyes of evil that sleeps on your face and sucks the breath out of you as though you were a helpless, innocent infant, then kills you after making you forget to feed your loving dog enough biscuits.’

“Wow, that’s a lot for such a short bark.”

—It’s all in the inflection.

“Ah. I’m a little puzzled by that last part about the biscuits, as not many ‘cat-lovers’ would also have a relationship with a dog.”

—I may have embellished the translation just a little, but basically it’s accurate.

“So, am I hearing that you don’t get enough biscuits?”

—No, no, no. It’s more like ALL dogs aren’t getting enough biscuits, not just me.

“Right. What about the ‘scentless mate of a skunk’ part?”

—As far as we’re concerned, the canine community, that is, the worst thing in the world is to not have any smell, unless it’s smelling like a skunk, which is about the only smell we find objectionable: thus, the combination of the two is particularly insulting.

“I can see that. You once told me that little dogs are idiots; are cat-lovers worse than little dogs?”

—Absolutely! Little dogs are just idiots, but cat-lovers are traitors to the pack. Little dogs are still dogs, but cat-lovers are like . . . un-dogs or non-dogs, very, very bad.

“I see . . . I sure wouldn’t want to be one of those, then.”

—No, it would be most unfortunate.

“You’re going out earlier today, my dear Lewis.”

—What?

“Yeah, in about 10 minutes.”

—Come on, it’s cold out there.

“I know, but I’m taking a long trip out to the valley and I need you to guard the back yard. Oh, and watch out for the holes.”

—How come you guys get to dig holes, but I get in trouble if I dig holes?

“Because our holes have a purpose, yours are simply destructive and pointless.”

—My holes have a point.

“And that point is?”

—It’s classified.

“Classified?”

—Top secret dog intelligence.

“Playing with oxymorons again?”

—Ha, ha. But just trust me, there are some things it would be better that you did not know.

“And one of those things is why you dig holes?”

—Yes.

“I find that hard to believe.”

—You wouldn’t by any chance be a cat sympathizer, would you?

“And what if I were?”

—Even more reason not to explain my hole-digging. We have to be careful in these dangerous times.

“You’re beginning to sound like the Bush White House: be afraid, be very afraid.”

—If only . . . if only . . . the terror I have to deal with. . . . Let’s just say, again, you don’t want to know.

“All the more reason, then, for you to go outside.”

—Wait, no, that’s not what I meant . . .

—How’s my bark coming along?

“Your bark?”

—Yes, the bark you’re helping me compose about our morning conversations.

“Oh, the book . . . wait, I’m helping you? I was under the impression that I was doing most of the work.”

—Think what you want, but if you were honest you’d admit that you’re merely a shadowbarker.

“Shadowbarker?”

—It’s similar to a ghostwriter, but with less responsibility.

“I see.”

—You’re still important, don’t misunderstand me, but we both know who the principle creator is.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you cleared that up.”

—You’re welcome . . . now, how’s it going?

“You tell me, O Principle Creator.”

—I’d say it has to be going extremely well, given all the fabulous ideas I generate for you to use . . . I’m just a little worried that you aren’t getting them . . . um . . . finalized fast enough.

“It would certainly help matters if you didn’t screw up every photo I’ve tried to take.”

—What do you mean?

“You can’t seem to be able to hold a pose; you’re always walking toward the camera instead of staying still.”

—Oh, so those photos are for the bark?

“For the book, yes. I’m not sure you would be able to transmit photos by barking.”

—True. Okay, I’ll try to be less restless.

“Hey Lewis, what’s with the teeth-on-toes action in the morning these days?

—Whatever do you mean?

“You know what I’m talking about. You’re not just licking my toes when you do your morning hoppy dance before breakfast, you’re nipping my toes.”

—Unequivocally and firmly and without hesitation, I deny that: I do not bite the toes that feed me . . . get it?

“Yeah, hilarious, you’re a real Henny Dogman—but come on, I’ve definitely felt your teeth on my toes.”

—If so, and I stoutly and without reservation refuse to admit to such a possibility . . . it would be accidental, pure and simple.

“Once would be an accident, maybe twice, but I’ve been getting nipped every morning now for over a week.”

—Do you feel no guilt over your obviously egregious and outrageous exaggerations? Let me state categorically: I do not bite, nip, nibble, chew, masticate, or otherwise grab with a vise-like-grip-that-rends-the-flesh your toes with my canine canines . . .

“Methinks the dog doth protest too much . . .”

—. . . but, if what you claim has happened, actually happened, though inadvertently, mind you, if I did, somehow, slightly, almost imperceptibly, and with the lightness of a tiny wisp of goose down brushing against an eyelash that has fallen undetected upon your forearm, actually grazed your precious wittle toesies with my small, and extremely dull teeth, rest assured there was no direct intention behind such an alleged act, rather it would be merely incidental, brought on by the excitement of the morning reverie.

“ . . . “

—Aren’t you going to retort with some of your biting human sarcasm . . . biting, get it?

“You’ve stupefied me with excess verbiage. Just watch the teeth from now on, okay?”

—You have my word.

“I’ve had too many of your words today: actions speak louder, got it?”

—No morning teeth. Got it . . . is it time for a biscuit yet?

Lewis is miffed that we were able to find chanterelles without his help. He was hoping we’d be skunked again and that his claim to be a shroom hound would get more attention next time.

—I’m certain you would have found many many more with my assistance.

“Assuming we could have found you finding them; as I’ve noted before, without a doubt you’d have been bounding off chasing squirrels or zipping from one pile of moose droppings to the next. Your dedication to mushrooming is extremely suspect: you don’t even like chasing balls we throw for you.”

—That’s different: I’m a working dog: give me a task and I’m on it like . . . like white on rice, or whatever you bipeds say.

“Ever hear of brown rice?”

—See, that’s what I’m talking about: you complain about my supposed lack of concentration and yet you mouth all these inconsistent platitudes that finally just don’t make sense.

“What? Talk about making sense: you’re a ‘working’ dog now? A sleeping dog, maybe but working? It is to laugh.”

—You’ve just failed to take full advantage of all my talents.

“And for that I deeply apologize . . . and then snort with suppressed hilarity.”

—Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother.

Lewis wants you to know that he, too, sympathizes with the workday travails of She With Whom He Abides, and as a result he will be an even more faithful, loving, and loyal dog than ever before.

“So, you’ll be cutting down on the whining?”

—I don’t whine, puppies whine.

“Sounds like whining to me, oh Venerable One.”

—I prefer to think of such moments as expressive vocalizations of need and desire.

“Well, that makes a huge difference. You’re a regular Dog King of Euphemism.”

—I prefer to see it as precise description informed by exacting methods of specification analysis.

“Call it what you want, whiner: none of this bagel will be making a detour, via an arc-like trajectory, to your interactive canine digestive tract despite all your expressive vocalizations of need and desire.”

—And maybe when you get a real job you can afford to buy me a different brand of dog food.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware you minded the continuity; you always seem quite excited about breakfast.”

—I’d be even more excited if there were a little variety in my diet.

“You get plenty of variety from your constant begging.”

—It’s not the same.

“You know, when I get a real job, you’ll be spending a lot more time outside all by yourself.”

—Oh.

“Hadn’t thought of that, had you?”

—Are you applying for any night shift positions?

—You humans have forgotten that there are only three really important things to worry about.

“And those are?”

—Eating, sleeping, and smelling.

“Easy for you to say: you don’t have to finance your eating.”

—I beg to differ: reminding you every morning that it’s time to feed me takes a lot of effort.

“So, let me get this straight: you’re claiming you work hard for a living?”

—Absolutely. You people are so stressed out by all the petty details of your existence, you’d quickly forget the important things if I didn’t make my presence known.

“Important, meaning filling your food bowl?”

—Of course, what could be more important?

“Maybe you could recapture your ability to track down game and become a little more self-sufficient.”

—No problem: just let me roam a little and I’ll be back in predator shape in no time.

“You’ll also be lost.”

—Now you’re just being insulting: you can’t have it both ways: keeping me penned up and chiding me for not hunting.

“You’re right: I apologize.”

—Thank you . . . say, would like some smelling lessons?

“Not if it means sniffing your butt.”

[Editor’s Note: A failed mushroom expedition prompts Lewis to protest being left behind.]

—What do you expect? You abandoned me for the whole day to go hunt mushrooms. I could have helped you locate chanterelles.

“It was only a half a day and how do you know what a chanterelle smells like?”

—I just do.

“I’m skeptical: I’ve heard of truffle-smelling hogs, but not chanterelle-sniffing dogs. Besides, if we’d let you loose in the forest, we’d have spent all our time chasing you down after you took off after some phantom squirrel or distant bird. And dragging you around on a leash would not have been fun at all.”

—I wouldn’t run away, I promise.

“Uh huh. Right. Though, admittedly, you probably would have spent a fair amount of time being intensely involved in all the animal sign we saw: bear, elk, deer, moose: a dog-nose delight.”

—See? It was very mean of you not to take me: I get tired of smelling the same old back yard.

“Sorry, but your reputation as a dog who runs away at the mere hint of freedom is well-established: we just couldn’t chance it.”

—And look what happened: not one mushroom: you paid for your prejudice against my superior canine senses.

“We’re not prejudiced against your nose: we’re worried about your indiscriminate feet.”

—Whatever . . . now could you scratch a little lower, please?

Lewis claims we should have found a way to allow him to spend last night on the bed.

“There’s not enough room.”

—It’s a huge bed. Besides, surely you’ve heard of the “three dog night” concept?

“It sounds familiar . . .”

—Both you former Alaskans should be well aware of it: it refers to the Inuit practice of using dogs as bed warmers, and a really cold night equaled a “three dog night.”

“As well as some classic rock hits that will haunt us baby boomers to our graves.”

—Yes, well, that’s a human problem. Anyway, last night certainly qualified as at least a “one dog night,” don’t you think?

“We have an electric under-pad beneath our sheets: we don’t need dogs.”

—You’d prefer to bathe your body in electro-magnetic radiation that probably causes massive cell disruption and long-term systemic breakdown to the natural heating of your loving dog?

“Electricity doesn’t have dog breath.”