The canine couch potato, despite its lack of comfort foods and fizzy drinks, is a particularly lethargic type of vegetative entity. It is the type of dog that any quick, brown fox has always dreamed of jumping over. Only a single, quivering, antennae-like ear gives any indication that life exists within the furry frame sprawled on the cushions.
The canine couch potato is not vexed by questions of space and time; there are no bone burying deadlines to meet; that artisanal cheese crumb under the dining room table will still be there tomorrow; those sounds and smells from outside must growl at their own provocations this afternoon.
I've tried preaching to the dog with Biblical proverbs: "The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied." But, like the prodigal pooch in the kennel of its breeder, the canine couch potato merely responds with a drooping eyelid and a short wrinkling of an apathetic snout.
Perhaps the canine couch potato believes that it has entered a state of suspended animation; that it will wake at some future date when dogs have mastered the art of opening the fridge and making a chicken sandwich for themselves. It is mistaken, obviously, but you can't convince a canine couch potato that the truth is actually very different.
The irony here, of course, is that the canine couch potato should not be on the couch in the first place, but such flagrantly flouted rules of law are topics for another post.