Owner: What do you want? Can’t you see I’m thinking?
Ownee: Here I am, standing at attention, my head cocked at an adorable angle, awaiting your command. By the way, if you happen to have an old, unused treat hanging around, I know a guy who can get rid of it for you.

Owner: Why don’t you go lay down? Have a nap?
Ownee: Just a small treat would be fine. Or two small treats. They’re small, after all.

Owner: Where’s your ball?
Ownee: Ball? I know that word.

Owner: Is that it, over there?
Ownee: Yes, I’m right here. Ready to help. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to be sitting on any old treats would you? Don’t get me wrong, old treats are fine. Sitting on them is also fine, even if they are crushed. Are they crushed? That would be fine.

Owner: Over there. Look where I’m pointing.
Ownee: Funny, but I never noticed before. When I squint my eyes, that thing on the end of your hand looks like a sausage.

Owner: Follow my finger. Over there. Under the table with the big lamp. See it?
Ownee: So, just to be clear, do we – I mean you, of course, heh, heh — have any sausage in the house? By the way, outside the house would be fine.

Owner: If I can see it – and I’m looking right at it — you can see it. Look where I’m pointing.
Ownee: I guess I’ll just come right out and say it. I would like a sausage. I really would.

Owner: No, stop licking my finger. Stop. Do you want your ball or not?
Ownee: Definitely not a sausage.

Owner: Okay. Just this once. I shouldn’t have to do this. Now, do you see where I went and found your ball? It was right where I pointed. Right there in plain sight.
Ownee: I’ve been looking all over for that ball. I think. Maybe not. What is a ball anyway? I do know this: it’s not a sausage.

Owner: Geezy weezy it’s covered with slobber.
Ownee: I love the smell of slobber in the morning.

Owner: Okay, here it goes. I’m just gonna toss it down the hall. Go play and leave me alone.
Ownee: Finally, some action.

Owner: Hey. What are you doing? Did you just roll your ball under the couch?
Ownee: What a great game. I hide the ball under the couch. Then I make like I’m trying to crawl under to get it. But I can’t reach it. So I whimper.

Owner: Stop trying to crawl under the couch. You’ll never make it. You’re too fat.
Ownee: A carefully timed whimper always gets him out of his chair and into the game.

Owner: No, dear, I didn’t say you were fat. I was talking to the hairbag.
Ownee: Yes! I knew it! He’s lifting up one end of the couch. There’s my ball. Odd. His face looks like the color of raw hamburger.

Owner: I know he can’t talk back, dear. Or wont.
Ownee: Speaking of which, I wouldn’t mind a hamburger. And can I get fries with that?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2020, all rights reserved.