Gunther and the old man.

His feet are heavy, his right arm, numb and tingly.  He throws the plush squeak toy briskly at his little brown dog, who responds in kind, snapping at the toy.  Whimper, says the little brown d.

“What’s wrong?” asks the man in a baby voice.  The dog runs behind the couch, whining and crying.  He has lost both his balls.

After digging out the balls from under the couch, finding an additional two, the man throws all four out across the room.  Then he heads for the bathroom, leaving the door open.  He sits on the commode.

“Gunther, come!” he commands.  G. obediently trots in.

“Gunther, sit,” he says.  G. trots five feet away and lays down.

“Well, that’s one way to sit,” he says.

“Gunther, come!” he commands.  G. wanders away, out of sight.

“Treat!” he says.  “G. trots up to him, sitting at the alert.”

Gunther waits for a treat.