[ He listens, watching quietly from where he's flopped out. He can feel it starting to sink in, the vodka and the weed, and the haze is nice. But he's still attentive. He can still listen, because honestly? He's starting to think Pinkman doesn't ever have anybody to do even just that, the way he talks. ]

You got a dog in your house, you ain't gonna forget t'feed it. [ Jesse tells him, squinting. ] That dog's gonna love you t'death. S'what dogs do. [ He pushes himself up with some effort, and that rush of blood makes him all sorts of dizzy. He grips at the counter almost in irritation, steadying himself, and then gestures in the direction of the living room. ]

C'mon. Couch. [ He slips off the counter clumsily, and pauses to look at Pinkman. ] ... You could do it, man. S'different than pills - how long ago was it with your aunt, huh, that recent, forgetting the meds?

-- You could do it. It don't matter.