“Celebrity fads,” Jamie huffed. “They aren’t even trying anymore. Now it’s just ‘rip out piece from ysteryear’s meme, substitute, and slap onto the celebutante of choice.'”

“You sound like you have a very specific example in mind,” Chelle called from the kitchen.

“Damn right I do,” said Jamie. “The T! network is doing a bit on the latest lapdog craze: pugs. They’ve got shot after shot of anorexic heiresses carrying around wrinkly little runt-dogs in designer cases and talking about how the best purebred pugs come from the Endeleri puppy farm in Istanbul.”

“I think pugs are cute,” Chelle said over the sound of dicing onions.

“It’s not whether they’re cute or not,” cried Jamie. “They just took the chihuahua craze from a few years ago and slotted in another dog! It’s like remaking a movie that’s four years old.”

“You know they do that all the time right?” No reply save an exasperated sigh. “You know you can change the channel if you don’t like it.”

“I can’t. I’m mesmerized by the glamor and pugstyle.”

“Buck’s a shadow pinscher.”

“A what?”

“A dog that’s specially bred to detect evidence of spirits–ectoplasmic residue, cold or warm spots, that sort of thing.”

“That might just be the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, come on. With all the stuff on the internet these days, is spiritualism such a stretch, even if you’re a skeptic?”

“Not that. That name, Buck.”

“Buck is a fine name for a shadow pinscher!”

“So, this kind of dog–which I’ve never heard of before and which for all I know you just made up in some recess of your addled brain–was bred to sniff out ghosts and you didn’t name him ‘Scooby-Doo’? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“First, Scooby-Doo was a Great Dane. Second, there were never any real ghosts on that show. If I had a dog bred to sniff out latex masks so we could see that Old Man Withers was really the Screeching Phantom of Midley Moors, then we could talk.”