“Explain something for me: I’m curious: since you’ve decided that you can hop on the bed without asking permission, why do you wait until we’re just a few minutes from getting up? Why not be presumptuous and rude in the middle of the night so that you’d get to spend more time on the bed?”

—Tradition.

“Tradition?”

—Yes, we of the canine persuasion are big on tradition.

“Since when does hopping up on the bed equal tradition?”

—After the first time it happened.

“What?”

—Well, okay, the second time, but the first time prompted the second, so it might as well have been the first.

“You’re not making any sense.”

—Look we dogs are big on routine, we like to know what’s happening and when. Things that happen regularly become traditional, and traditionally, we like to have as many traditions as possible directing our existence. It makes us feel comfortable, safe.

“I see. So, because you were let up on the bed one morning, now that’s the only time you can repeat that?”

—Something like that.

“But shouldn’t part of the tradition be ‘getting permission’ like the first time?”

—I didn’t want to disturb you and I felt we had an understanding.

“Uh huh.”

—It’s a very important tradition, you know, I’m not sure you should be questioning it.

“Right.”

—It keeps you safe, too.

“Yeah, I’ve never felt so secure.”

—See?

“I don’t know, it just seems like you’re taking advantage.”

—Never.

“Oh, so it’s a sacrifice for you to have to get up on the bed every morning?”

—As a fierce but loyal watchdog (Barkmark still pending) I don’t know the meaning of the word sacrifice.

“All in a day’s work?”

—That’s right.

—And remember to feed the dog.

“You’ve already been fed.”

—No way! When did that happen?

“About an hour ago.”

—Surely you jest.

“I can’t believe you’re actually trying this gambit.”

—Nothing ventured . . . I suppose . . .

“You know, I’ve noticed that you lick yourself a lot.”

—So?

“Isn’t that kind of cat-like? All that tongue-grooming?

— . . .

“Well?”

—Well what?

“Aren’t you going to answer me?”

—About what?

“Being cat-like, the licking of your paws and such. You’re just going to ignore me?”

—What?

—What’s the deal with She With Whom I Abide?

“It’s all your fault.”

—What?

“She was going up the stairs to get you a treat and her knee went out on her in a manner yet to be determined.”

—How’s that my fault?

“Your treat, your fault.”

—She wasn’t really going to get me a treat. Was she?

“Sure. She felt bad you had to stay outdoors so long yesterday.”

—That was indeed terrible.

“Yeah, well, her knee is paying for it.”

—But . . . but . . .

“Ah lighten up: I was just jivin’ ya: the knee thing started weeks ago when she slipped on a hill behind her parents’ house while we were looking for an Xmas tree.”

—Oh. That wasn’t very nice blaming me.

“I know. I apologize.”

—Apology will be accepted along with a biscuit, which will ease my emotional trauma.

“Of course.”

[Editor’s Note: Lewis learns that a screenplay may divert attention away from “his” bark.]

—Oh no, now my bark is really going to get the short stick and my well-deserved celebrity will be postponed indefinitely.

“What are you moaning about?”

—This movie deal thing.

“Hey, nothing’s happened yet: it could all be a mirage.”

—Oh, but even if, you’ll still be fussing with that and not my work.

“Your work? Where do you get such delusions: I’m doing all the work, you just lie around complaining all the time.”

—I beg to differ: it is my scintillating conversation you are seeking to capture with your feeble talents.

“Oh, and now you’re insulting me: that’s a real good way of keeping a partnership flourishing . . . and I use the term ‘partnership’ loosely given the one-sided nature of this one.

—I can see you’re being unreasonable again. So, go ahead, become a big-time Hollywood screenwriter, ignore the little people you’ve stepped all over on the way to the top, forget your roots, deny your initial humble aspirations in favor of being a snooty flaming stuck-up cat-hole . . .

“Cat-hole?”

—You heard me: and I meant every word of it.

“Do dogs have a new year?”

—Yes, but we don’t use the same day you do. We find it kind of ridiculous that you folks pick what is often a cold miserable lousy day to celebrate.

“You might have something there.”

—The canine belief is that if you can’t do it outdoors, something’s missing.

“Makes sense. So what day is the dog’s new year?”

—Sorry, can’t tell you: privileged information.

“What? A top secret dog day?”

—I don’t make the rules.

“What difference would it make if I knew what day your new year’s was?”

—Sorry, can’t tell you that either.

“Oh, come on.”

—Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have even admitted we had a different day.

“I can’t believe this.”

—That’s the way it is. Deal with it.

“So, anything else you want to discuss?”

—Later, maybe. It was a rough night and I really need to take a nap.

“My, you’re awfully needy today: just lie down.”

—But I haven’t received my Daily Morning Ear Scratch Minimum Requirements.

“There are requirements?”

—Absolutely: scientifically tested and proven amounts of ear scratching that ensure that your dog remains healthy and alert.

“I had no idea.”

—Well, until today, you’ve been doing your job adequately.

“My job?”

—Um, you know what I mean.

“And no, you are not going to get any of my Mountain Bar: chocolate is bad for dogs.”

—I don’t think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure there are Minimum Requirements for that, too.

“And now you’re stretching things past the point of credibility. And lie down! I scratched your ears already.”

—You missed a spot.

[Editor’s Note: The winter of 2008 saw record amounts of snow; at times, 2 or 3 or 4 feet of the stuff blanketed the area. It was a nightmare.]

“Liking all this snow?”

—Not really, since it makes patrolling extremely difficult.

“Yeah, you were quite a sight bounding about, sinking up to your neck.”

—I gave it my best effort.

“We were impressed, and quite amused.”

—I’m so glad I was entertaining.

“You’re just an all-purpose dog, delightful in every way imaginable.”

—You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .

“Ah, time for a nap already?”

—A dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do: wake me if a biscuit starts using my name.

“Will do.”

—I can’t believe it! This snow is destroying the routine! You’re all leaving me! I’ll be all alone! Freezing in the snow! Oh woe! Woe! WOE!

“Oh hush up. You’ll be fine. The Boy will still be here, and you’ll be inside. Get a grip.”

—Woe?

“Hush.”

—Biscuit?

“Don’t push it, pal.”

“So where were you hanging out when I came in from blowing snow?”

—Nowhere special.

“It was strange because usually you greet me at the door.”

—Um, yeah, sorry about that.

“You seem a little reluctant to chat . . . you were camped out on the bed, weren’t you?”

—No, no, I was . . . um . . . patrolling the . . . uh . . . back rooms.

“Meaning the bedroom, since the office door is closed, which probably means you were snoozing on the bed.”

—Not at all, just being vigilant, as usual.

“You sure were taking up a lot of space on the bed last night.”

—Just trying to maximize my warming effect.

“I see.”

—Spreading out spreads the joy, don’t you know.

“I do now.”

—Another service of your fierce but loyal dog: versatile, vibrant, vigilant, and vicious.

“What’s that, a new slogan?”

—Yes, I’ve been doing some market-testing of the 4-Vs motto.

“Vicious? Not exactly comforting.”

—Well, I meant vicious to intruders and other enemies.

“I’m not sure that’s exactly clear.”

—Okay, I’ll continue the refining process.

“You do that . . . and stay off the bed.”

“And when I leave, should I put you outside? I said, should I put you outside? . . . Are you pretending that your supersensitive dog ears can’t hear a simple question?”

—Were you talking to me?

“Yes.”

—Sorry, I must have been so exhausted from working yesterday . . .

“Working? You were inside most of the day, though admittedly it must have been difficult wading through all that snow when we let you out to do your . . . chores.”

—That was indeed difficult, but I’m referring to all the energy I expended being worried about all of you out there in the cold.

“Hold on, working equals being worried?”

—Absolutely! You have no idea how tiring it is being the ever-vigilant, fierce but loyal (Barkmark still pending) dog pacing the house back and for and back and forth while those he has sworn to protect—even with his own life—are trapped in an icy slippery world of darkness . . .

“Okay, okay, I get the picture, though probably you expend more energy coming up with your overwrought speeches.”

—Well, that takes some doing also . . . which reminds me, given how cold it is, shouldn’t you be doubling my rations and biscuits?