Glancelot was appalled. "Why," he demanded, "is there a bone in my sandwich?"
He didn't expect anyone to reply. People were generally too afraid to talk to him when he was angry. So he was shocked when he heard a gloomy bass voice say, "That would be mine."
More surprising than the voice was the fact that it came from thin air. But no, Glancelot realized when he looked closer, not thin air. It was little more than a slight, gaseous discoloration at first, but the longer he stared at it, the more solid it became. And at last it assumed definite, if rather smoky, form. It was a wraithlike beast. A ghostly dog.
“Is this what your mother would have?!” demanded the ghostly dog. “Here you sit with a world of food to explore, yet what do you do? You refuse to eat anything but PEANUT BUTTER
SANDWHICHES!” I’m not sure how much of this Glancelot was retaining. The utter
shock and surprise of have one’s meal interrupted by an ethereal Labrador
robbed him of any faculty of recollection.
“How many times did your mother try to convince you that there is more out there than this peasant’s snack? On your mother’s grave, a curse to you- a Putty Tongue curse!”