Twentieth

Everyday, at around 9:00 pm, my dog Whisky runs out to the balcony. As he trots over, a low growl escapes his normally smiling mouth. His lips curl up, giving him a much more intimidating look. grrrrrrrrrrruuuh. He takes a step out. There is a grille, arranged so that there are 9 squares. Whisky sticks his head through the bottom left square. Ruff ruff ruff grrrrr ruff ruff ruff. The barking is deeper, more resonant than usual.

My mom screams at Whisky. Whisky pulls his head back in, and barks a few more times for good measure. He steps daintily back into the house, and just for kicks, gives another bark. He walks back into the house and sits down. My mom comes over to me and says, "do you know why he barks at this time? Come outside".

I step outside. "Look down. Sniff the air. The people right below us smoke outside, and that's what Whisky is barking about". Indeed, I see that one floor down, on the balcony, is an ashtray, the remnants of several cigarettes lying still in a field of light fluffy grey ash. 

Whisky slinks over, looking satisfied with himself.

"Good boy."