What if your dog were a better writer than W. Bruce? Not too hard to imagine, is it? Maybe while you're out of the house, your pet turns on the PC and keeps a journal of the day's events. If so, this is what it might look like...

A Dog's Diary

5:30am: Started the day as a hero! When the sound of the newspaper hitting the driveway roused me from my deep slumber -- the impact indicating the paper was much heavier than normal -- I realized that no one in the house was yet awake! I roused my master by licking him in the face. He appeared very angry with himself for having overslept, shouting and waving his arms. His ill temper even seemed directed at me a bit, which is silly since it is I who saved him from being fired. Funny thing though: He didn't go into work, but spent the morning leafing through the large newspaper and drinking coffee. He seems to do this once a week, and I don't know why.

7:30am: Invaders! The people who live next door came out into their yard, obviously getting ready to lay siege to our house. Snarling and barking, I let them know in no uncertain terms that I was prepared to tear them from limb to limb it they came any closer, and was able to repel the invasion. This is an almost daily occurrence; you'd think they'd learn. My master added his voice to the fray as well, yelling angrily. I am sure the people couldn't hear him, but it was nice of him to lend his support.

10:00am: I was forced to move, as the patch of sun in which I was lying had, for some reason, slid over a few feet. It's not easy being a dog.

1:00pm: I have the most thoughtful master in the world! While it's true he left me alone in the house for several hours, he did set out a treat for me on the kitchen counter. It was even gift-wrapped, a courtesy I wish he'd skipped, since it led to me having a lot of plastic in my teeth. The roast was delicious, though frozen in the center. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but crunching through two inches of rock-hard beef is hardly my idea of a delicacy.

2:00pm: Most unpleasant experience when my master returned home and was furious that I had not eaten the plastic wrap which had been covering my present. He kept pointing at the small pieces of Styrofoam and other debris and raving in a most irrational fashion. I'm sorry, but he should know that I can't eat that stuff; it makes my stomach upset. When he began rolling up a newspaper I realized he'd lost all reason and bolted for the front door, which was fortunately open just a crack.