By Carolyn J. Rose
Max: (confronting Bubba at the water dish) How long are you going to keep limping around and milking this?
Bubba: Milk? Somebody spilled milk? Where?
Max: Forget about eating. I’m talking about that alleged injury of yours.
Bubba: Nothing alleged about it. (Bubba limps around in an exaggerated manner, ala Chester from Gunsmoke) I pulled a thingie in my knee. Dr. Ferguson said so.
Max: (A) You don’t have a real knee and (B) I bet you made that up.
Bubba: Did not. If you hadn’t been at the groomer getting all clipped combed, massaged and girlie smelling, you would have heard him.
Max: I’m a purebred. Grooming is important.
Bubba: So is doing what Mom and Dad ask you to do, but nooooo, you can’t be bothered with that.
Max: I’m busy. Sun was in my eyes. I had an itch. (Licks himself in an embarrassing place to make his point).
Bubba: You’re busy every time they ask you to sit or come?
Max: Mostly. My calendar is, uh, crowded. You wouldn’t believe how many squirrels I’ve had to bark at this week. Besides, I’m protesting my treatment. I have to walk. You get to ride. It’s hot and my tongue hangs out. It’s not fair.
Bubba: (Practicing a prom-queen wave) Seems fair to me. Besides, I walk as far as Mom lets me. The stroller was her idea.
Max: Yeah, well, that shows what she knows. That stroller is way uncool.
Bubba: You’re just jealous because people stop and pet me and say “Ah, what happened to the puppy?”
Max: (Snorts). You haven’t been a puppy since Clinton left office.
Bubba: Sure, play the age card. (In a creaky voice) Someday you’ll be old. Someday you’ll wish you weren’t so “busy” and paid more attention when Mom asks you to stand on the right step so she can put on your harness.
Max: Blah. Blah. Blah. Harness, blah blah, step, blah blah old. (He sniffs the air) I still say you’re milking it.
Bubba: And I say you’re a squirrel-chasing dum—
Max: Squirrel? Where? (He sprints for the sliding door, only to collide with the screen full face)