By Max and Bubba
Max: (jumping up on the sofa) Hey, wake up.
Bubba: (opening one eye) Huh . . . Wha . . .? Why?
Max: Because Mom says we sleep too much before bedtime and not enough at night. She says she’s exhausted because we keep getting her up to go outside with the flashlight and then just mill around till she lets us come back in.
Bubba: (closing the eye she opened) That would be my problem because . . . ?
Max: Because she might get really cranky and take her pillow into the guest room and close the door and not get up to give us our breakfast when it’s time.
Bubba: (opening both eyes) You had me at breakfast.
Max: Breakfast is good. (scratching his ear) It’s as good as dinner. In fact, it’s sorta-kinda-exactly like dinner. Only at the other end of the day.
Bubba: Use that brain often, do you?
Max: Nope. I don’t wanna wear it out. (checks out the window for a squirrel) So what are we gonna do? About sleeping at night?
Bubba: Well, whenever I wake up, I want to go outside, so you could stop waking me up by crawling under the bed and digging.
Max: Nope. Can’t stop that. There might be moles.
Bubba: Moles? In the carpet?
Max: You never know. Moles are sneaky.
Bubba: All right, then you could stop climbing over Dad and making him flop over and snore louder and wake me up.
Max: Sounds like you don’t want me to have any fun.
Bubba: Okay, then you could get more exercise before we go to bed. Chase your squeaky football down the stairs a hundred times.
Bubba: Okay, then play that game where you run at the sofa and I growl at you and you jump back and spin in little circles.
Max: Also booorrrrinnnggg. You never get off the sofa and take your turn.
Bubba: Why should I? I have seniority.
Max: Seen Who Itty?
Bubba: I’m older than you are and I’ve lived here longer.
Max: Maybe that’s why Mom says you’re too set in your ways. She says there’s no good reason for you to get her up for breakfast when you do.
Bubba: No good reason? It’s 5:30 when I get her up. That’s when breakfast is supposed to happen.
Max: Mom thinks 6:30 would be better.
Bubba: 6:30? That’s practically noon. (standing and stamping her front feet) I won’t do it. I won’t even consider it. I’ll go on strike before I’ll give in to a ridiculous demand like that.
Max: (running in circles) Oh boy. If you’re going on strike, I’m going too. Okay? Okay? Okay? (stops and scratches his chin) What’s on strike?
Bubba: It’s when we refuse to do our jobs.
Max: We have jobs? Like Dad used to have before he retired?
Bubba: Sort of, only different. We take Mom and Dad on walks and clean up stuff they drop on the floor and sit on their laps and let them pet us and do stupid tricks.
Max: Got it. No more walks! No more eating off the floor. No more tricks! No more petting!
Bubba: (raising a paw) Lap dogs of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains.
Max: Yeah. What you said. (sits and cocks his head) Um, except we don’t have chains, we have those plastic leashes. And, um, I’m kinda gonna miss the petting. (Looks out of the window) And the walks. Let’s not go on strike.
Bubba: Okay, so much for my Norma Rae impression. (curling up to go back to sleep) Don’t forget to wake me up at midnight for a trip to the back yard. Tonight could be the night we see a squirrel.
Max: (running for the door) Squirrel!?! Where?