“Aussie, what do you call a magician dog?”

“What?”

“A Labracadabrador.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Here’s a more human joke: What’s the difference between the devil and a utility?”

“What?”

“In hell they don’t turn off the heat.”

“That’s sad.”

“Come on, Aussie, cheer up.”

“You know what’s funny? Seeing the Illegal Chihuahua run and bark at humans on the road. As if anybody is going to be scared of that peewee, verbally incontinent punk.”

“I see, Aussie, that even wounded as you are, you’re still nasty.”

“Just how much of a change were you expecting?”

“Sometimes, when we’re hurt or vulnerable, certain aspects of personality surface that have been invisible prior thereto.”

“Speak English.”

“When we suffer, we may show different sides of ourselves that we don’t show at other times. But not you.”

“I am seriously wounded—”

“Next time try to look where you’re running.”

“—disabled, unable to put my foot down—”

“Which you like to do.”

“—and hurt. I am destroyed!”

“Aussie, you did this to yourself. And you always get into trouble on weekends when the vet’s office is closed, and the hospital is the only alternative. Only this time they were so busy they couldn’t take care of you. Remember how we went there at 4 on Sunday morning to see if they would take you?”

“You woke me up! You call yourself a caregiver?”

“Aussie, I’m the one awake half the night making sure you don’t remove that bandage and start licking the wound. This week I’ve been taking you to the vet every single morning because stuff is still draining from the wound and they examine it, clean it, and rebandage it. You know what that’s costing?”

“And while I’m being tortured in the treatment room, where are you? Protecting me? Yelling to the vet not to come close? Sneaking treats to me? None of the above. You sit in the waiting room reading a magazine.”

“I do not. I am just sitting there.”

“You mean, sitting as in sitting?”

“That’s what we call seated meditation, yes.”

“That’s so confusing. Humans sit on sofas or steps or in a car or in a restaurant. Zen weirdos just sit.”

“I try to stay awake because keeping the bandage on you is an ordeal.”

“I’m into naturopathic healing, not chemicals, stitches, or bandages. Do you know how much natural healing power my saliva has?”

“The vet says that’s a myth, that when you lick the wound, you open up stitches and may cause more inflammation. Here, take your antibiotic.”

“I will not. I’m into the whole dog, not just the paw. What’s it wrapped in?”

“Peanut butter.”

“Smooth or chunky?”

“Aussie, I’m losing patience.”

“You can’t lose something you never had.”

“You opened two Elizabethan collars meant to prevent you from removing the bandage!”

“Of course, I couldn’t see anything.”

“The second one you didn’t just open, you destroyed the tabs that go into the holes, so there’s nothing to do but throw it out.”

“I went to the root of my suffering.”

“What?”

“You wrote something about this guy Ariyaratne saying that when bad things happen, go to the root of suffering. I was suffering and I knew that if I just tear off the collar, you’ll put it back on, so I went to the root of my suffering and destroyed the tabs.”

“Now look at you. I had to get you out from under the stairs because when you hide there, you pull off the bandage again. And now you found yourself another hidden spot, ready to do it all over again.”

“It’s called practice. I do things again and again and again. Get over it.”