“So, how was puppy time?”

—Okay, I guess.

“Even after a night’s sleep, you look exhausted.”

—I’m not as young as I used to be, I’ll admit that.

“So, what did you two dogs do?”

—I used the time to instruct the youngster about important dog lore.

“Like how to be completely uncertain about whether you want to be inside or outside?”

—I can’t control events on the outside: sometimes things happen that just have to be investigated.

“Like how to run around like an idiot barking at nothing?”

—I resent that: I’m always barking at something.

“Yeah, like a bird that’s already flown to the next county . . . and what’s all that sniffing about? How often do you have to sniff a dog’s butt? Does it really change minute to minute?”

—The tone in your voice suggests you are only asking these questions to ridicule me. I think it’s time for my morning nap . . . I mean, my morning meditation.

[Editor’s Note: Lewis learns that the neighbor’s Golden Retriever, Kolby, will be dropping by for a visit. Though Kolby is larger than Lewis, he still is, technically, a puppy.]

—Oh no, is that rambunctious youngster going to visit again?

“Probably.”

—Does he have to?

“What’s wrong? Too energetic for you? You were leaping all over the place just a few minutes ago when I let you back into the house.”

—That’s different.

“How so?”

—Well, I was excited to see you and you’re about as old as I am so I knew that our levels of interaction would be commensurate.

“Puppies just don’t know when to quit?”

—Something like that . . . can’t he just stay in his cage for the evening?

“Would you like to be left in a cage? You don’t even like being left in the back yard.”

—That’s different.

“Oh really. I thought patrolling the back yard was part of your difficult job as a guard dog.”

—It is.

“And yet, lately, you often give me the sad-eye treatment when I ask you to go do your job.”

—I do not.

“Oh please.”

—The weather’s changing, it’s getting chillier.

“So, you’re a fair-weather guard dog? What good is that? Should we put up a sign that says: Beware of Dog! (When the Temperature Reaches 65 Degrees and Above.)?

—That won’t be necessary, but I’d really appreciate it if you could somehow limit Kolby’s visit.

“I don’t know . . . I think the exercise would do you good . . .”

“Did you actually think you might get away with it, and get fed twice?”

—What do you mean? You haven’t fed me once.

“Ah, slipping into the old legal beagle sentence-parsing mode . . . no, I haven’t fed you, but you have been fed, and I have the note from She With Whom You Abide to prove it.”

Lewis is silent, but I can tell he’s trying to figure out his next move.

—I didn’t want to disappoint you.

“What?”

—You seem to enjoy my morning greetings, and I didn’t see why you should suffer their absence simply because you were a sloth this morning.

“All for my benefit, then?”

—Absolutely.

“No attempt to deceive me?”

—None whatsoever.

“Uh huh.”

—Still, if your appreciation for my performance had included a little nutritive recompense, it would have been rude of me to not accept it.

“No, when you want to be rude, you just fart.”

—I don’t do that on purpose.

“Maybe not, but it’s definitely rude.”

—Biscuits help with my gas problem, you know.

“No, I didn’t know that.”

—At least, they don’t make it worse . . .

Lewis says that he, too, is ready to do his part to make life easier for She With Whom He Abides.

“And what exactly will you be able to do?”

—I’m an excellent source of affectionate tongue massage.

“Toe-licking?”

—That’s just a small part of my repertoire.

“What is it with the toe-licking, anyway? I mean, do feet taste good, or what?”

—Whether they do or not is not the issue: we know you love it.

“We?”

—The canine community.

“So, the canine community is willing to lick even the nastiest toes simply because you know that humans love having their toes licked?”

—Basically.

“Such a noble sacrifice.”

—Indeed. And it’s become traditional, so . . .

“Oh, so now it’s a cultural thing?”

—Something like that.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the attention.”

—Of course she will.

Lewis, of course, is glad that I have no dreams to report in this e-mail.

—It was taking you away from your more important work, he tells me.

“Meaning, writing about you?”

—Yes. I figure that if this book is a success—and how could it not be, considering the subject matter?—that you might feel obligated to thank me for the inspiration by giving me better treats than you’re currently offering.

“Always a food angle with you . . . you know, your deadly sin is probably gluttony.”

—I prefer to think of myself as a gourmand, someone always looking for broader culinary experiences.

“Okay, whatever you say. Certainly you do that part of your job better than any other.”

—What do you mean?

“Well, for instance, I heard you had a bath the other day.”

Lewis beings to look sullen.

“And that you did not enjoy it.”

—It was unnecessary, that’s all. And what does a bath have to do with my job, anyway?

“You’re a retriever. You’re supposed to dive into lakes and ponds and swim out to get ducks and such, yet you don’t seem to like water very much.”

Lewis does not reply.

“Plus, you’re a ridiculously bad retriever, as well. You never chase stuff I throw for you, or hardly ever, and then you don’t give up the item and let me throw it again. What’s with that?”

—I’d rather not talk about it.

“Why?”

—I’d rather not talk about that either. Or the water issue.

We were silent for a while.

“You’re being very mysterious about this, Lewis.”

—I prefer the word dignified. Or reserved.

“Those are not words I’d usually associate with you.”

Lewis does not reply: he lies down with his back to me, in a very deliberate ‘nuts to you’ type of way.

—What’s she talking about? She With Whom I Abide is not slothful. No way.

“Yes, but let’s consider the source of this endorsement: you sleep 20 hours a day.

—You’re mistaking my deep thinking time with my sleep time.

“Deep thinking?”

—Oh yes: it’s a combination of meditation and intense analytical philosophizing that would shame human versions of the same.

“Uh huh. And what exactly are your deep thoughts?”

—I’m afraid they are too deep for you to comprehend.

“Try me.”

—Sorry, I know how fragile human egos can be.

“So you’re not answering me to protect me from getting my feelings hurt?”

—Yes.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

—No need: protection, as you know, is part of my job as a faithful canine companion.

“Again, my gratitude knows no bounds.”

—Do I detect sarcasm?

“Sarcasm? How is that possible? I’m just a stupid human who can’t possibly understand the deep thoughts of dogs.”

Lewis looks at me, begins to reply, then thinks better of it, and flops down on the floor for some more deep thinking.

I decide to pursue the issue of his next bath some other time.

I tell Lewis that my friend Gail has sent me a huge set of dog jokes, one of which characterizes Labs as goofy, eager idiots, and he simply stares at me with as much dignity as he can muster.

Then I tell him that in the same e-mail another old joke is repeated, ergo, that dogs have masters and cats have staff.

Lewis continues staring.

—Next time you open the door for me, I’ll remember that . . . master.

“I sense a wee bit of sarcasm.”

—Sarcasm? Me? I’m just a goofy idiot Lab, remember? Oh, and by the way, master, my water dish is nearly empty . . .

[Editor’s Note: In honor of Halloween, The Lewis Letters disrupts its usual chronologically sequential presentation and leaps ahead to recall a Halloween of days gone by. Regularly scheduled programming will resume tomorrow.]

“Okay, Lewis, time to head outside.”

—What? It’s hardly light out.

“Sorry. Things to do, places to go.”

—But . . . but it’s cold out there.

“You have your doghouse.”

—But it hasn’t been properly prepared yet and the heater hasn’t been plugged in.

“I’m sorry, I can’t leave you inside, because I don’t know when I will be returning.”

—But . . . but . . .

“Also, I want to remind you that tonight lots of people might be showing up and we would prefer you don’t bark at them. Some will be very small children who might frighten easily.”

—Well, I don’t know, if I have to spend a lot of time outside, I might be cranky.

“I see, then perhaps we’ll just have to leave you outside until all the trick-or-treating is finished.”

—Now, now, no reason to get hasty . . . say, if I bark “trick or treat” will you give me a biscuit?

“I’ll think about it.”

“I noticed that you tried to get into the garage again yesterday.”

—I did not.

“The door was open and pushed up against the dog food barrel; it didn’t open by itself.”

—It must have opened by itself, because that is something I do not do.

“What about all the times I’ve come home to find you in the garage, in the dark?”

—Burglars did that, to prevent me from doing my watchdog duties.

“Every time?”

—Yes. Different burglars, though.

“And just how does that work, exactly? Why didn’t you bark or bite them while they were putting you in the garage?”

—They surprised me while I was taking a well-earned nap: one minute I’m soaking up the sunlight, then, suddenly I wake up in the dark on the cold cement.

“Pretty sound sleeper.”

—I have a tiring job.

“They must be pretty strong burglars, too. You’re no featherweight.”

—Are you suggesting I’m fat?

“Well, that’s what the dog food label claims.”

—I have no control over what kind of food is purchased or what it says on the label.

“True. Just like you have no control over getting trapped in the garage.”

—Exactly.

“One last question: why haven’t the burglars stolen anything from the house after taking care of the vicious watchdog situation?”

—I think it’s time to get a drink of water.

“So, I’ve noticed how intently you stare at whatever food I’m eating when you want me to share; it’s a very interesting look.”

—Yes, it’s known as the Food Magnet Technique.

“It’s got a name?”

—Oh yeah, named and developed by one of the great dog philosophers of all time, Queenie.

“It’s nice to see that dogs aren’t sexist, that female dogs can be viewed as great philosophers.”

—Dogs don’t have many of the shortcomings humans have, however, Queenie was male: he just abided with some pretty stupid human beings. I’d tell you his dog name, which is much more dignified, but you wouldn’t understand it.

“Ah, of course I wouldn’t. So tell me about Food Magnetism.”

—It was first described in Queenie’s most famous bark, “How to Win Food and Influence Those You Abide With.”

“Bark?”

—Yes. Obviously, dogs don’t write books, we create barks, we have an oral tradition.

“That’s for sure. Is Mikey next door transmitting great barks?”

—No, like most little dogs, he’s just an idiot.

“Dogs may not be sexist, but they certainly seem to be size-ist.”

—We can’t help it: most little dogs are just big idiots.

“Get back to Queenie.”

—Well, Queenie taught us that the best way to score the food we deserved was to concentrate on it with all our might, to stare at the target with one thought in mind: You (meaning the food) are already mine. I’m already chewing you. You taste delicious. You’re being swallowed right now. You’re mine.

“That sounds like more than one thought.”

—Variations on a single theme.

“Mind over matter.”

—Yes.

“How does Queenie explain those times when Food Magnetism doesn’t work. Is it your fault, because you haven’t concentrated hard enough?”

—Sometimes, but mostly it just demonstrates that evil still exists in the world . . . but that’s a lesson for another day.