Scene: A living room somewhere in the Midwestern United States. A portly spinster is sprawled in her Happy Chair, needle and thread in hand, a stupid-soft throw wrapped about her substantial frame.
A little dog appears.
He hops up onto the spinster, peers over his little reading glasses, checks for a pulse, and then gently pokes her a few times to see if she can be persuaded to either a) stop snoring and let him resume his perusal of the latest New Yorker, or b) haul herself out of said Happy Chair and stumble into the big girl sleigh bed for some shut eye.
The spinster grunts, clutches the stupid-soft blanket tighter to her ample (yet saggy) bosom, and mutters something about Jeffrey Dean Morgan and animal shelters. She does, however, manage to let go of the needle and thread long enough for the little dog to park it safely on the designer pin cushion that the spinster and her sister just had to have during a recent late-night excursion to the WalMart.
Sighing heavily, the little dog turns off the spinster's stitching light, pats her on the head for being the simpleton that she is, and then pees on the ottoman as he makes his way back to his study.