It's the Most Saddiest Time of the Year

Come Fall, this is Newman's song. He howls it every day – to the tune of It's the Hap-Happiest Time of the Year.

There is no traditional carolling for Newman as we approach the festive season. Taking its place is SAD, as in Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Dogs call this the Seasonal "I'm gonna crap on the shaggiest carpet I can find, I will eat rotten eggs and slow-release dog farts throughout the house, I will provide a safe and warm home to thousands of wayward ticks and fleas until you meet my one and only demand" Disorder.

And that demand is – take me back to that huge expanse where I can do anything I want.

We call it the cottage.

He calls it his happy green acres. For reasons he will never understand, access to his happy place is cutoff from October to April.

What's really amusing is the excuses he comes up with to try and get me to take him there.

Oh Paul, he asks, have you seen my monkey chew toy? You know, the one that I slowly eat over months and months, causing you to occasionally have to remove long threads from my anus as a result – and usually while I poop on Davisville Avenue as hundreds of cars stuck in traffic watch you tug away.

Oh Newman, no I haven't. Perhaps it's under the pile of dirty underwear you collect.

No, checked there. I think I left it at the cottage. Could we just nip up for a weekend and fetch it?

Well, Newman, math has never been your strong suit. Monkey toy equals $2. Gas to cottage equals $40. 40-2 equals NO.

What about the dog food we left up there? It's gonna go stale.

And you're still gonna eat it.

I left my favourite book up there.

I memorized it: See Spot Run – away from my hand!

I left my pacemaker up there?

Thousands of dollars in vet bills says your heart is as good as it's gonna get.

I'll eat your shoes.

If the shoe fits – in your colon – have fun with that.