The Stew Master

Stewie is now thirteen weeks old and forty pounds. Named after Stewie Gilligan Griffin of "Family Guy's" precocious baby, Stewie the dog hardly resembles the football-headed cartoon infant. About the only thing the two have in common is that they pee and poop themselves at the drop of a glove.
I have to admit that he's a pretty nice dog, but he's already a bit spoiled, having all kinds of stuffed toys, a Weatherbetta dog coat, big smoked bones, treats, and a lot of loving. If only all dogs could end up with nice homes--the world would be so much warmer, more civilized. The human world, after all, defines itself, really, by the manner in which it treats creatures it considers beneath it. What a fine place ours would be if everyone extended charity and kindness to the animals. In such a world no cats, horses, or pot-bellies would suffer, and neither would the wildlife.
This afternoon I bought Stewie a big cow bone (sorry, vegans), and I brought his big dog bed into the kitchen while I put away the rest of the groceries. Well, as you all can see in the video, I have my right hand in a half cast after having a re-fix on a carpal tunnel surgery that scarred down. This time I didn't paint the downstairs bathroom a week after surgery; instead, I'm taking care of this hand and only doing the exercises I'm supposed to do.
So, fishing around in the cabinet above the refrigerator trying to get a box of quart-sized freezer bags, I used a tongs to grasp the box because my right hand is "off." All of a sudden this heavy tray came flying out of the cabinet. I ducked, but the tray crashed onto poor Stewie, who, for a change, was minding his own business, intent on his boney. A high-pitched yelp pierced the air, and out he ran, me on his heels apologizing profusely.
He darted into his crate, his right leg raised, and the look he was giving me was one of pure remorse.
"No, no, Stewie," I said, reaching into the cage. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm so sorry. Mommy has a bum hand right now. Come here, and let me see your leg." Slowly he emerged from the crate. He avoided looking at me. Poor thing--probably thought he was being punished for chewing what he thought was his own bone. Believe me--we haven't used corporal punishment on him, but he had to have thought he committed a crime of colossal canine crapola.
I quickly summoned Edgar to check his leg, biting my fingernails through the examination. He pronounced him just fine, and I sighed relief.
This evening Stewie's back to chewing on his boney in the living room.
I like Stewie because he's rather quiet for a puppy. I especially like that he doesn't jump on us. And he hasn't sniffed my crotch yet, which is always a good quality in a dog. He runs beside me around the woods and is being fairly kind to the barn cats and the pigs as they roam through their days. He's just a pleasant fellow, and we really like him.
As usual I don't simply call him "Stewie." His other nicknames include "Gooey Stewie, " "Stew Master," Stew Man," and "Stew Bird." And when he pees on the floor, he's "Dammit Stewie!",