So I think my two-legged pets are trying to poison me again.

Every day, as soon as I have finished my meal, I cannot help but feel itchy all over -- to the point of squirming.  I find myself every afternoon writhing on the carpet, on my back, in pure itching annoyance.

My pets think it is "cute."

But I cannot help but wonder ... what is it I am being fed that causes such a physical disturbance for me?

Rolling on the ground only temporarily relieves my back.  To get to the inside of my paws -- which, believe you me, burn like they are being held aloft a flame -- I find myself licking and gnawing into my paw pad, desperate for my too-short teeth to scratch the burning skin below.

Couple the exertion of rolling around, bending and contorting with osteoarthritis (in four legs, thank you), and it makes for an exhausting afternoon.  Every day.

It has to be something in the food ...

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So my pets think they're clever.

Hands hidden behind backs before mealtime.  The faint glimpse of a plastic syringe.  A strange cherry sogginess in my normally dry food.

They're trying to poison me.

Ah, the heartbreak!  I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve this fate.  Was it the frequent trips to the doctor for my limping?  Was it the massive amounts of money bits they paid for my osteoarthritis injections?

Have they just grown tired of me?

A deep feeling of remorse has overcome me.  How did this happen?  I never complained about my knee pain, never whining and moaning.  I valiantly kept up with the youngest of the Two-Leggers, even if waddling to do so.

Sure, I may have be hit with a few reverse sneezing episodes as of late, but you would, too, if your soft palette extended into your esophagus.

Where's the loyalty?  The oath to care for one's family -- not harm them?

Sigh.

I must plan my escape before it's too late.

And when I find this Mr. "Benadryl" my pets keep mentioning, I'm going to sink my teeth into him.

Might I just say how happy I am to have left the snowy North and returned to my homeland?  I can appreciate that my Two-Legged Pets want to spend time with other members of their litter -- sometimes even I'm nostalgic for the days of old, my twelve brothers, sisters and I all huddled together as mom told us doggybedtime stories.

But the bitter cold, disappearing ground (damn you, "snow"!) and perpetual state of inactivity (see my last correspondence) were driving this here of the Noble Canine Family bonkers.

The Southwest -- it's a serene, barren place.  Nice and warm, dry weather.  Beautiful vistas.

And as long as my doggy water bowl continues to be filled, I'll remain in bliss forever.  (Though on that score, I've heard talk from my pets the water is disappearing.  Can it be?  More than marrow-less steak bones, this scenario plagues my night visions.)

I digress.

What better way to celebrate our return home?  Dinner at an outdoor cafe, of course.  (I know, it's now near or is January.  And, according to the round dial above Papa Pet, we're relaxing in 72-degree Fahrenheiters.  If you're anywhere not in the South, you probably hate me right now.  Then again, you do have water ...)

Strictly speaking, I'm not usually allowed to eat at the restaurants with my pets (silly "health inspectors," I've been told).  Though on account of my always good behavior, I am allowed to sit beneath the table.

Which brings me to the unintelligent villains of my story.

My pets were sitting there, enjoying a good meal and recounting various fun stories from the holidays (I particularly loved hearing once again how, because of losing their luggage on an airplane, one of the "New Yawk" litter actually fainted at the prospect of wearing non-form-fitting, lighter-shaded clothing).

And what should happen but two very shifty, shady young women with gelatinous bellies, thin, strung-out, excessively curly light hair, and protruding overbites sauntered in and sat at a table across the aisle.  They emanated a strange, demonic attitude.

And, to what would have been the "New Yawk" breed's horror, they were wearing sweatpants.  In public.

Almost immediately I could sense my pets' attitudes changing -- their joy dimming.

I peeked across the way to see the Evil Urchin Twins looking maliciously toward my family.  Listening in, I realized they were mimicking my pets' conversation in strange voices and then ... laughing.

My pets' auras worsened.

I was confused -- they never seemed this discomfited.  And the Squid Women -- their auras grew ever more malevolent.  The fur on my back stood straight.

It seemed my family was under attack ... but unable or refusing to do something about it.  The impulse to defend was mounting.

I felt a light pull on my pets' leash and realized we were leaving.  One of the Platypus Sisters stood up smiling, revealing several dark teeth and a hellacious gust of breath even the Two-Leggers must have noticed.  She sneered at Papa Pet, "Don't forget your purse!"

BAM!

My teeth were digging into her heavily-volumed (if oddly structureless) rump.  Squeals of pain erupted.  Shouts of anger from Dim Henchwoman #2.  A strange, potent gust of wind from my victim's other end.

Calm instructions from my family:  "Creak, let go.  Creak, she's not worth the attention for which her disgusting attitude pleads."

I bit tighter.  I was pissed.

"Creak."

No one messes with my family.

"Creak."

I could taste the fear in her sweat.

"Creak."

And what a bitch, too.  Now my OA was definitely going to flare up.

"Creak, my boy, bite any tighter and she could infect you with something."

DOH!

I released and looked pleadingly at my pets -- the last time I inadvertently said hello a little too well to a new friend at the park I had a metropolis of fleas devouring my nose.

"Good boy," The Mother Pet said.  "Everyone, we're leaving now."

That night I received a full steak bone all my own.

Beautiful, delicious marrow included.

This day known as Thanksgiving has always been the cruelest.

I tell you -- in my many years in this monochrome world, I have upheld my integrity and never begged or whined for even a morsel of the culinary goodness my arthritis-free Two Leggers enjoy.  I may only see in black, white and gray, but those smells ... oh, those delicious smells, how my pets tease me ...

And on this "Turkey Day":  various species of poultry, swine, steamy vegetables of all shades, sweet, sugary goodness in pans like my food ... and in that American tradition, cinnamon.  Cinnamon everywhere.

Those delicious, mouth-watering aromas waft over the table and settle on the floor with me ... like a desert mirage tempting me with water I had long-last known.

I resist.  It is beneath my nature to succumb to The Urge -- a frenetic fit that takes over lesser members of the Canine family, causing barking, howling, scowling, begging, pleading for the Two Leggers' attention so a smaller, less noticeable Chihuahua or Boston Terrier can sneak behind and steal treats from the paper-mâché Pilgrim Man Shrine.

Oh, the pain.

For once, you'd think my pets would have enough compassion -- to think of someone other than themselves for even a miniscule moment in their abnormally long lives -- to offer me something.  Anything.  Even just a bone with which to sharpen my teeth (though perhaps they fear the rump-aimed retaliation such toned pearly whites would wreak).

For the love of all that is holy and bacon -- please help me tame The Beast without losing my dignity!

My friends.

(*sigh)

My trusty, cardboard-tasting "dog food" it was.  Again.

To top it all off, when nature called, I waddled to the back porch (OA, like my mother, is a bitch), only to discover that the ground had completely disappeared, and the light sky shockingly stretched from the heavens right up to the wood on which I stood.

I piddled right there.