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)
