In which "Scruffy" pulls a character-fatwah on his owner

Salman Rushdie, Master of Disguise, dons a keffiyeh-like bandanna to throw would-be assassins off his scent.

I assure you: I had no idea.

"It is like a bad comedy. My relations with the protection officers were cordial and I am still friendly with a few of them. At the end of my nine years of protection they held a reception for me. I had a lot of sympathy and understanding from the police. Our relationship was the exact opposite of what has been written. I never heard myself called by the name Scruffy in nine years." (Emphasis added so as to impress upon my reader my shock upon reading this.

You think you know your dog, and then he goes around to the press and makes up stuff like this.

I fed him Science Diet!!! He took nightly treats from me without cutting me in on royalties to boot.

Oh--and: It's not been any nine years, either, that liar, though it certainly has felt like it, trailing after him, cleaning up his literal and figurative messes, scratching behind his ears when he lays his head on my lap, giving him his flea treatments, bathing him . . .

(Yeah: I never suspected. He was that good.)

And to think I not only bought The Satanic Verses in solidarity with his plight but actually tried to read the thing. He hides out with me, doesn't let on and doesn't let on . . .

Ingrate.

(If you're confused, go here. Hat-tip: Imani)