Good Pup, Bad Pup

Whose Fault Is This?
Still under the porch. They're still calling. I'm still not moving.

I've been thinking that maybe something I did caused this arthritis. Even my brain -- which I admit is relatively small compared to a border collie or a monkey -- says it was nothing I did, but I can't stop the things I did as a pup from crowding in and occupying the blame side of my brain. Like when I took a dump in George Parke's shoes after he took them off during "Japanese night." Hey, who eats raw fish anyway? And it wasn't like he wasn't wearing socks. Or when I buried the cordless by the roses. Hey, if it was in the charger I wouldn't have been able to get it, and if it didn't have raw hamburger smell on it, I would have never noticed it. Who answers the phone with raw meat in their hands?

I know lots of dogs who have done worse things, and they don't have arthritis. So I guess it isn't something I did. But still, why would I be punished like this if I didn't do something bad? Does the universe just punish some of us for sport?

There is a smell wafting under here -- yes, I'm still under the porch -- and this smell is better than sex -- and I have a pretty good memory. It's brisket. Christ, it's brisket. It's brisket in broth bubbling in the oven, cooking slowly. Boiling softly in the pan. It's beef. It's real beef. This ain't dog food. Could they be cooking this for me? Did they understand my pain? Did they figure out why I'm hiding under here? Are they cooking me a big dinner to let me know everything is OK? They will do whatever they can to help me be nice to everyone, and play with the kids again. My god, they understand. I'm outta here. Outta here. Outta here. Christ, it's bright out here. OK. Hi. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. Hey, I'm here. Over here. OK. I'll just lie down here in the kitchen and wait for dinner. I'm back everybody. Over here. Hi...