My dog entered my office this morning with the usual dour expression on his otherwise adorable face. He sat down on the recliner across from my desk, pulled the side lever up to elevate the footrest and stretched out his legs. His snout emitted a deep sigh, as though he were carrying an enormous burden. After clearing his throat, he announced he wished to register some highly thought-out complaints. He sarcastically noted his complaints were usually ignored, in particular pertaining to our Christmas of the most recent past.

I bid him to proceed.

The first complaint was that Santa Claus hadn’t taken the time to stop in to wish him a hearty hello.

I explained, for probably the forty-second time since Christmas, that Santa is exceptionally busy on that night. So, although he would love to, he simply doesn’t have the time to speak to every dog in every house.

“I baked fudge for him.”

“Yes, I know you did, and that was very considerate, but let’s not bring involuntary manslaughter into the equation.”

He stared at me for a solid ten minutes, the first of our traditional daily staring contests. He broke the impasse by saying, “Are you saying my fudge is not up to the standards it ought to be?”

“I’ve tasted pure arsenic that was tastier – and safer.”

“Your wife gave me the recipe.”

“Your point is …”

“You’ve eaten pure arsenic?”

“Last week when she made meatloaf. It was the side dish along with broccoli.”

My dog dismissed me with a wave of his paw. “It requires hardly any arsenic to kill a person. I should know. I add it to your coffee every day.”

 “Yes, but the government mandated preservatives in the creamer negate it. Now, is there anything else on your mind about Christmas? How about something positive? You told us you liked your presents.”

He jumped off the chair and stood at the window with his front paws on the sill. After he sniffed the air a few times, he vehemently barked at a passing dog out being walked. My dog continued until they were out of sight. Back in the recliner, he thanked me for one of his Christmas presents, a boxed set of fifty of the greatest fiction books of all time.

I nodded, genuinely pleased he enjoyed them.

However, he was curious about something. “Who exactly decides these fifty are the greatest?”

“It’s just somebody’s opinion.”

He stared at me, although this time for a much shorter duration. He then defined great literature as a book adapted into a movie. “If it’s not good enough for Hollywood to steal,” he added, “what good is it?” He jumped off his chair and began casually licking his right front paw. His eyes suddenly narrowed, and he asked if I knew where his bone was.

“They’ve turned everything into a movie, and usually a crappy one. They’ve ripped off video games, theme park attractions, TV series, whatever isn’t nailed down by good taste. By your logic, The Beverly Hillbillies is great literature.”

He shook his head in sadness. “You humans, you’re all alike, with your infinite capacity to generalize. Obviously, the source material for the feature film you mentioned is not great literature.” He then gazed around my office, even leaned his head slightly to glance under my desk. He said, “You’re saying you don’t have my bone? I distinctly remember lying upon my bed alongside your desk yesterday and gnawing away on it until I fell asleep. I didn’t wake up with it. Did you sell it?”

“There’s hardly a booming black market for your bones.”

“Where is it then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you literally chewed it up.”

He shook his head in disgust. “You must think of me as quite the oafish lout. I would never chew a bone down to the bone.”

I couldn’t recall him being in my office yesterday at all. Instead, he spent the day lying in wait to terrorize the mailman.

He began to bite his back nails but paused long enough to say, “In order to be known as among the great literary fiction books of all time; the first step is for it to be adapted to film. Right?”

“There’s another step?”

“And said film must contain a minimum of eighteen riveting explosions from which people in the foreground are frantically fleeing – in slow motion. This elevates the book to magnificent literary art for the ages!”

“I think I need to take you to the vet.”

“She’d only agree, and she’d also tell you the final step to qualify as great literature, is that the film is adapted into a Broadway Musical comedy.”

I turned to my computer. “I’ve got work to do, pal.”

“Therefore, the only book in the series you bought me that qualifies as great literature is The Great Gatsby.”

“There were never any explosions in any film adaption of that book.”

His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t see last year’s version. In 3-D! There were twenty-three of them, and Jay Gatsby ran away from each in slow motion, except … for the last one.” My dog bowed his head in sadness.

He looked up. “From that one, I’m afraid, he didn’t quite make it.”