Lewis wants to remind you that he, too, has an exhausting schedule awaiting him. So exhausting, in fact, that he must immediately begin a few hours of intense napping to sufficiently prepare himself for what will no doubt be a grueling day. He sends his best and claims to know exactly what you’re going through at this time. Oh, and could you bring him some tasty snacks when you return home—the monotony of his diet has become slightly distressing, he claims, and interferes with his high-activity lifestyle.

[Editor’s Note: one of the perks of Andrea’s job is that drug company reps frequently wine and dine medical professionals at fine eating establishments under the guise of “continuing education.” So this e-mail began with the expressed hope that after work she will be well-taken care of at Churchill’s, one of Spokane’s premier steakhouses.]

Lewis would like to remind you that it is “Give Your Favorite Dog Leftovers from Fancy Steakhouses” Month, and that you should celebrate this appropriately—preferably with red meat.

Then, after a hard day of scarfing dog food, he retires for a well-deserved nap.

—It’s tough being a dog, Lewis tells me, as he flops down on the carpet with a resounding plop.

“Oh really?”

—You have no idea.

For emphasis, he farts in my general direction.

All over my computer, the keyboard, the trackball, my papers—dog hair, dog hair everywhere. Now that I think about it, an interesting Dr. Seuss-like poem / short book for kids might be possible using this theme . . . hmmmm. Lewis is already thinking about royalties and is demanding I take dictation as he draws up the necessary papers.

Warming to the project, Lewis suggests that with every copy of the book “Dog Hair Everywhere,” a small sample of actual dog hair could be included, say, in a little plastic bag attached to the inside of the back cover.

—Deluxe copies of the book would include my very own hair.

“Even a modest number of deluxe copies would leave you as bald as Kojak.”

—Who’s Kojak?

“Forget it. Besides, it’s fur, not hair.”

—What’s the difference? Besides, rhyme over truth, that’s my motto.

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Hey, put down those sunglasses: you aren’t a celebrity yet.”

—But I need to go bark at Mikey and the sun hurts my eyes.

 [Editor’s Note: Mikey is the annoying, always-barking, Napoleon-Complex-Suffering dog that lives next door.]

Lewis insists that there is an unwritten law that states that leftovers left on a stove automatically become the property of the household canine.

“That’s the second time in two days you’ve tried this legal baloney. What are you, some sort of legal beagle?”

—Yeah, just call me the barking shark of fictitious litigious malarkey.

“So, you admit your legal citations are feeble fictions?”

—Let’s just say I enjoy rhyme more than accuracy . . . now about those leftovers . . .

Dog Report, Part One: Lewis agrees with me. He claims he hasn’t eaten as much as quickly lately simply because he is so distressed over how long and hard you work.

—I can barely even enjoy my morning biscuit, anymore . . . and water doesn’t taste as crisp as it used to.

And then he flopped down on his side and appeared to lose consciousness.

*

Dog Report, Part Two: Lewis perked up a bit when he heard me type “Luna’s” [he has very sensitive and discriminating ears, don’t you know]. And now that he knows that you will be having dinner at that restaurant, he’s making a case for his participation in leftover consumption, trying to convince me that he’s always been given wide discretion in this area, and that as a loyal and faithful dog for so many years, he deserves a bonus now and again. He further suggests that any red meat should be reserved for him, and him alone, under the provisions of the recently enacted BEEFF law (Better Eats for Eager Furry Friends).

“I haven’t hear about any such legislation, and I read thousands of political blogs every day.”

—I’d google it for you, but you’re hogging the computer.

“So, go use her computer.”

—As if. Windows XP was designed by cats and it makes my paws hurt.

Then he returned to his previous unconscious state.

*

Dog Report, Part Three: But then he roused himself for a brief time to plead:

—Legislation or not, red meat makes my arthritis less painful . . . you can look it up.

The Dog Report: Lewis attempted his usual leaping with joy as we head toward the feeding bowl, but he couldn’t get much elevation and his hind legs slipped and he landed on his keester. I pretended not to notice. He also seemed prepared to catch the biscuit on the fly, again, but I didn’t notice that until I’d already offered it to him without the usual tossing. So, he’s mostly back. I wonder what laid him low?

Lewis does seem a little lethargic. Even his desperate yips to request readmittance were sounding a little tired. And I’m shocked to learn he doesn’t eat his whole bowl in one ravenous gulp.

(He just looked at me a little reproachfully, as if he knew I was typing about him, which perhaps he did: who knows what dogs can sense?)

Lewis is yipping anxiously, asking to be allowed back in.

I am ignoring him.

Of course, he can smell me, maybe even hear me tap the keyboard, so he knows I’m available . . .

It’s interesting how there are definitely different sounds attached to different requests. Full-scaled whining means:

—Feed me.

Silent head-wagging and panting, with a little hoppy dance means:

—I need to go out.

The high yipping (a pretty pathetic sound from such a big dog) means:

—Why haven’t you noticed that I want to come in, for gawd’s sake, I’m dying out here!

Deeper barks are directed at supposed intruders or the squirrel dogs next door. I’m sure there are other subtle alterations that could be eventually delineated. The lexicon is limited, but there are discernible differences.

(Lewis just let out a single little squeak that sounded just like a puppy. He’s obviously very discouraged at this point.)

Lewis wags hello and mentions that if you were here he’d surely be allowed outdoors right now immediately so what are you waiting for.

I remind him that you are not as big a sucker for his exit dance as I am and he attempts to deny that until he realizes that by doing so he is, in effect, calling you a bigger sucker, which is not a particularly good tactic to employ with someone who admires you as much as I do.

So, he changes his approach and looks very solemn as he reminds me of the small-yappy-dog threat ever-present next door that must be dealt with severely if we hope to have peace in our time.

I relent, and slide open the back door.

Lewis attempts to tap into his canine bloodlines and access the Coyote/Trickster mode, thereby hoping to score a second feeding.

—I need to go out! . . . Oh, you’re not coming out with me? Then, I need to come in.

—Okay, let’s try this again: I’m going out . . . wait . . .why aren’t you coming with me?

—All right, I need to come in, again.

And so it goes.