Sleeping and eating

It's Sunday. It's rain day. I've finished walking and feeding Stella and Rocky. I've finished feeding myself. I go over to the couch and sit down. It's especially comfortable today. I look over at Stella and Rocky in their respective dog beds. Stella's licking her toes. Rocky's making smacking noises with his mouth as he runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, seeing if there are any bits of food left behind in the nooks and crannies.

The couch is especially comfortable. I push some of the cushions aside and stretch out. Thirty seconds later, I'm asleep.

Stella: Look at him.

Rocky, still mining for food bits: (shmeck, shmack) I think I found some chicken.

Stella: I can't believe he's asleep.

Rocky, disappointed: No, just a piece of soggy kibble.

Stella: He should be hard at work and instead he just goes back to sleep.

Rocky: Well, it is Sunday. There's no work on Sunday.

Stella: Sure, there's no paying work on Sunday but there's still work. He could be brushing us, or cooking for us or giving us massages. He could be taking us for another walk.

Rocky: Ooh, I'd like that.

Stella: Not to mention all the yard work that needs to get done. I've never seen so many weeds back there.

Rocky: And none of them taste any good either.

Stella: You know, I heard from the dog next door ...

Rocky: I bark at him.

Stella: Yeah, whatever, tough guy. Anyway, I heard, he gets taken to the cottage every weekend.

Rocky: I thought you didn't like the cottage. Too many 'squitters.

Stella: Yeah, all that nature stuff is retarded but that's not the point. The point is that lump on the sofa should be bonding with us, strengthening the relationship, spending quality face time with us.

Rocky: (shmeck, shmack) I think I definitely found a bit of chicken this time.

Stella: You know, our lives are not reaching their full potential because of his laziness.

Rocky, seeing a bit of food on Stella's muzzle, sniffs at her with interest: Are you going to eat that?

Stella: You touch that, I'll smack you, I swear.

Rocky: Hey, that's pie on your face. How'd you get pie on your face?

Stella: None of your business.

Rocky: Hey, no fair. How come you got pie on your face and I don't?

Stella: Look, lazy boy there had pie for breakfast and he left some on the counter and ...

Rocky: Ummm, I'm telling ...

Stella: It was just crumbs, jerko. And if you say anything, I'll tell about the hot dog ...

Rocky: But that was from the garbage.

Stella: Oh as if that's any better.

Rocky, sighs: What kind of pie was it?

Stella: Boston creme.

Rocky: Aww, nooo way. That's my favorite.

Stella: Whatever. You don't even know what that is.

Rocky: But is sounds like my favorite.

Stella: You know, you're such a moron sometimes.

Rocky: Do you think there's any left?

Stella: Doubt it.

Rocky: Sure?

Stella: Well, uh, yeah, pretty ... hey where're you going?


When I wake up, the rain has stopped. I see some hints of sunlight glistening off the drops of water on the magnolia leaves outside the window. The dogs are asleep, Stella in her sphinx pose and Rocky stretched out stiff on his side like he's in rigor mortis.

I get off the couch and walk into the kitchen. In the middle of the floor, there lies a shiny, well-cleaned pie tin.