Tennis balls fly in every direction. I want to return them to my owner, but can’t tell which are real and which are merely the products of an overactive imagination, plagued by fleas.
So I give chase. I chase all of them at once. My owner smiles as I return, empty-handed and empty-mouthed. The next hours are a blur of chasing milkmen. For some reason they come in the middle of the afternoon and are all cats.
Playing outside in the rain, my owner and I roll on the concrete and bark at ice cream trucks. I try to tell him that I’m experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations, but he just thinks I want another belly rub. And, honestly, I do.
When night comes I’m digging a giant tunnel in the ground to nowhere. I would consider digging all the way to Mongolia, but I’m getting enough heat from the canine intelligence agencies already. All the grass does is talk and talk and talk.
Time to run in the street and chase the moon for a bit. The moon is God’s giant tennis ball, and once we get it back to him, he’ll give the best belly rub in history. It will last forever.
Curling up in bed, my owner wakes as I nuzzle him. He’s murmuring something about listening devices in our backyard, about a great big government asteroid. I rub his belly in assurance, and he puts a tinfoil hat on my head and opens up the safe for a treat. I don’t think the spooks will ever find us here. The last thing I hear as I fall asleep is my owner telling me how much he enjoyed the hole, and asking me to dig another one or thirty more.