As summer begins and the weather gets hot (the American Southwest will do that, you know), my two-legged pets have been all complaints, frantically scrambling from one air-conditioned building to the next -- as if too much time under the sun will melt them to the ground.

I do not mind the warm weather.  No, I rather enjoy it.  Perhaps it's the wonderful sense of lethargy that overcomes me.  Perhaps it's the fact that much of my perpetual nagging knee pain temporarily subsides.

Whatever the cause, I feel contented.  Just laying here, taking an occasional sip of water, and watching the beautiful blue sky above.

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Of all my two-legged human pets, The Daughter is by far the most athletic.

Unfortunately for me, she's also the one who takes me on walks.

As of late, she has decided we should increase our pace, working our "cardio" better.  I don't know what this mystical "cardio" may be but, unless it's a pork-filled treat, I am not interested.

What was once a fun, relaxing (if waddle-filled) activity has now become a nightmare -- my arthritic knees creak and groan with every concrete and asphalt impact.

I try moaning pitifully to remind her of my the shooting pains in my legs.  She looks down at me with what she must consider a winning smile, saying, "C'mon, Creak, this is good for you!"

What I need is a no-impact doggy elliptical.

In the meantime, I'll settle for classic trickery -- I've hidden my leash in a two-feet-deep hole in the backyard.

No more "cardio" for me.

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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.

I like to sleep.

Not going to pretend otherwise.  Whether it be because of my middle age (I am over 8 human years, you know), or my osteoarthritis, sometimes there is nothing I enjoy more than a satisfying nap -- curling right up on whatever comfy materials happen to be closest.

As of late, this has earned the ire of my pets.

Apparently it is not OK to pull the Parents' blanket off their bed to create a pallet on the floor.

Sad, you see, because their blanket is very thick and soft and makes sleeping feel like I am snuggling up in the arms of a beautiful St. Bernard. (Don't judge me.  I know how you humans are with your double quarter pounders and your karaoke.)

Apparently it is not OK to grab the Daughter's water pillow, pop it, and use its cool plastic lining to numb my knees.

Sad, you see, because I very much enjoy watching her dolls whisk across the floor in the ensuing current.

And apparently it is not OK to knock over the pasta jar, spill noodles throughout the kitchen, and have four-legged drifting contests with the Two-Legged Toddler.

Sad, because, though it has nothing to do with sleeping, it is ridiculously fun.  (Makes me feel like a pup again.)

Thus, I'll stick to my latest favorite:  the oh-so-sweet-smelling-and-about-to-be-knocked-over-pile-of-just-folded laundry.

The humans couldn't possibly have a problem with that one.

Due to my mild manners and impeccable behavior, the son of my two-legged pets takes me everywhere when I visit him -- including the laundry room of his apartment complex.

I admit -- this canine's curiosity gets the best of him.  For the love of all that is mountain spring fresh, from where does this cacophony of laundry room smells emanate?  The people, the clothes, the plastics bottles of washing liquids ... it's enough to overwhelm a member of the noble family of Canine.

So I go, for the excitement and the discovery.

In fact, I'd almost be blissful ... if it weren't for my pain-in-the-arse arthritic knees.  (And yes, there are four of them.  Blast you, oh Blessed Lassie gods on high!)

Because a visit to the laundry room means ... we have to walk to the laundry room.

So we walk.  Down some stairs, across the parking lot, down some more stairs to The Den of Exotic and Unnatural Smells.

Michael -- the son of my pets -- puts his metal money bits into the machine, presses a button ... and stares at it.  Nothing happens.  He hits the machine.  Jostles it from the side.  Pushes the metal money bit button erratically.  Still nothing -- no gushing water sounds, no strange clanging.

Michael tilts his head to the side in confusion -- and I guffaw out loud.

"What is it, boy?" he asks.

I wink and smile.  Humans have never figured out we learned the "confused look" from them.

"You're right, I think something's wrong.  Let's head over to the office."

So we walk some more.  Up some stairs, across the parking lot, down some stairs into the complex's main hub.  I silently curse Michael for being healthy and limber.

"Yeah, well the water's turned off today from 10 - 2," the woman tells us.  "There are signs posted."

Michael hits The Look again.  "Where?"

"On every building's bulletin board," she says.

Feeling his empty pocket, Michael asks, "How do I get my money back?"

"You'll have to call the laundry machine company," she says, annoyed.

We walk (curses!) -- Michael crestfallen -- back to his apartment.

"Man, I really wanted to get this load done," Michael says.  "Later I won't feel like doing it and then a week'll go by with all these dirty clothes laying around."

I panic.  How will I keep down my dinner when faced with such a disheartening stench?

"What?!"

Michael looks alarmed.  I swing my head, worried a burglar has been caught in the act ... only to regret the stinging sensation rocketing up and down my neck.

"There are no signs here," Michael says. "Look, no sign about the water on the bulletin board, no sign on the door, no sign on the wall ... there are no signs here.  And there definitely were no signs in the laundry room."

I sense anger rising in him now.

"I'm going to go back over there and share a piece of my mind," he says.

I panic again.  Sharing a piece of our minds means walking.  A lot more walking.

"Burrrghghhgh," I moan.  (Or however it sounds to audibly-handicapped humans.)  I flash my most pathetic of puppy-dog "let's-stay-here-and-watch-'The-Price-Is-Right'-instead" looks.

He looks at me.

"You're right, boy," he says, calming noticeably.  "'The View' it is."

I panic.