Bernie’s in a bad mood today. That’s because Mr. Rentner called. Mr. Rentner’s our accountant. I don’t know what he does, exactly, besides putting Bernie in a bad mood. Right now Bernie’s at his desk and there are papers all over the place. I took one or two out into the hall and gnawed on them a bit. I don’t like seeing Bernie in a bad mood.
“Do you realize,” he says, “that there wasn’t any damn income tax until the Civil War?”
The Civil War? That was new. I go into the office, scarf up another sheet of paper, more of a scrap, really, take it into the hall. Oops. I’ve just started gnawing when all of a sudden here’s Bernie, looking right at me. But he doesn’t seem to see what I’m doing.
“The better angels of our nature,” he says. “That’s really something.”
I wag my tail; it seems like the right response at the time.
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