I found Mumphred unconscious on the kitchen floor, the poodle moping next to him. He wasn’t doing anything.

“Hey doggy!” I waved a spare-rib, some meat still sticking to it, at the poodle. It immediately turned its attention to me, tail wagging happily. I threw the bone and the dog ran off after it, totally forgetting about Mumphred.

I walked up to Mumphred and kicked him in the ribs. He stirred a little.
“Mumphred, wake up. You’ve passed out again,” I said.

He mumbled something incoherent, but didn’t wake up. I kicked him harder and this time he woke with a start.

“Hey Mumphred! Wake up. All you ever seem to do is lie passed out on the floor. The dog mauls you a bit, and then you lie around and lament your horrible fate.
“We need to fix this. It’s getting boring,” I said.

“You! You’ve come to finish me off while I lie here on the floor? You are no lion. What kind of lion wears a safari hat? You are a dishonorable rat! I spit on you!” Mumphred raised his head and spat at me. The spittle arced up and down and splattered on his own chest.

“Bah!” he said, his head fell back and all the fight seemed to flow out of him.

“Come now Mumphred, don’t be like that. I saved you from the ‘killer beast.’ What happened to that optimistic Mumphred? That ‘tomorrow will be a good day’ Mumphred? Where’s happy-go-lucky Mumphred?” I asked.

“‘Happy-go-lucky,’?” said Mumphred, incredulously.

“Yeah, okay. Good point. There is no happy-go-lucky Mumphred. Doesn’t matter. Get up. We need to chat.”

“Go away.”

“Aw Mumphie. You’ve done that ‘go away’ thing before. It’s tired and old. It’s something else we probably need to chat about.”

“I haven’t told you to go away yet, have I? I told someone else to go away. Now it’s your turn. I’m trying to die here, so go away!”

That really is the whole problem with Mumphred. He’s so damned one-dimensional, and he’s the protagonist in this story. You’re supposed to give a damn about Mumphred, but I’m pretty sure everyone is just thinking, ‘When the hell is that dog going to rip the whiney plush-toy’s head off?’
The plot is missing something too. That’s because the story is based loosely on real events. That’s right, this is a dramatised reality show. Like Rescue 911, only nothing gets rescued. Quite the opposite.
But how many variations are there on the theme of miniature dogs hunting anthropomorphised plush-toys?

“You’re still here? I want to die alone. Abandoned. Unwanted. Unloved. Go away, you treacherous rat,” said Mumphred, interrupting my train of thought.

See what I mean? Mumphred needs a make-over, and I’m the one to give it to him.

I grabbed Mumphred by his right leg and dragged him across the floor. He began to wail mournfully as I dragged him, intermittently saying things like, “Leave me alone to die.”

I ignored him and took him to the shelf in the study where I live. The poodle can’t get up here. I told Mumphred he’d be safe here, but he continued to insult me and demand to be left alone to die.

I left him alone. He’d eventually stop whining. He has every other time.