“Michael who?”

“I’m sorry, who did you say was adopting me?”

“An athlete.”

“A synchronized swimmer? A lawn bowler?”

“No, a football player.”

“A punter?”

“A quarterback.”

“Eli Manning?”

“Uh, no. It’s, uhm

“RG III?”

“No, it’s, uhm … Michael Vick.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Michael Vick.”

“… oh …”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Wasn’t there that nice lady with the cute kid …”

“She has cats.”

“Ughh …”

“We know you prefer no cats.”

“Wow… Michael Vick.”

“I know.”

“Well, I won’t mask my disappointment. Does he know I had my molars removed after the Nylabone incident? Or that I have very dry skin which is exacerbated by rough contact with other dogs? I’ll flake all over his couches, does he know that?”

“He has your records.”

“Look at me, I’m absolutely shedding. I can’t stop peeing, and I’ve already been on seven walks today.”

“You really should calm down.”

“You know, it’s not like I can’t stand cats.”

“Sorry, she already adopted Rusty. Rusty likes cats.”

“Rusty likes squirrels, too. ‘Nuff said about Rusty!”

“Mr. Vick says he doesn’t partake in dogfighting anymore.”

“They all say that.”

“He filmed a commercial for PETA. Oh, and he doesn’t even own a vacuum.”

“Really?”

“He’s rich. If the floor gets dirty, he buys a new one.”

“Well … You know it’s not that I’m afraid to fight other dogs.”

“Of course not.”

“I just choose to use my words, instead.”

“I know.”

“No vacuum, huh?”