
We were having a problem with instability in the universal gravitational
constant that day:  the closer I got to those exposed fangs (still dripping,
no doubt, with the viscera of the last foolhardy experimenter cum canine
psychology) the bigger and heavier the dog appeared to become.  Also, 
recall that the distribution of the ~150lb is one five pound jaw+teeth 
operated by two 70lb muscles driven by a .005 ounce brain possessing an
instinctual heuristic composed of equal parts of bloodlust and ravening hunger.
The other ~5 lb is, of course, dog poop, but that varies all over the place 
as the dog deposits it regularly on the painstakingly manicured and tended 
lawns of the dog's owner's neighbors (whilst continuously replenishing its
inexhaustible supply, no doubt by consuming the likes of folks like me).


My very thought at the time, but as I looked down at these once formidable 
instruments of mayhem, I realized they had become weak and atrophied by too
many sedentary hours tapping away at my ergonomically-correct CRT keyboard.
There was only one option left: I reached down to the toolbox near my
car and grasped my Craftsman 150 ft-lb torque wrench, surely the bludgeon
of dire necessity if ever there was one.  To my amazement and
confusion, the setter started shaking and rolling on the grass, then leapt
to its feet and vanished down the street, still quivering and occasionally 
looking back at me.  

"Seven at One Blow!" I exclaimed, flexing my new-found biceps and brandishing
my Terrible Weapon of Invincibility as I stalked the now-secure environs
of my domicile.  It was only later that I found out what the dog apparently
knew all along: the wrench was defective, would no longer measure torque
accurately, and Sears wouldn't fix it or replace it.  What I had interpreted
as fear and subservience were in fact unmitigated hilarity and contempt.


Exactly: nobody can look quite as silly as we can.