NEWS ITEM: The New York Times reported that best-selling memoirist Augusten Burroughs' mother has disputed some of the "Running With Scissors" author's recollections in his new memoir, "A Wolf at the Table." For instance, Burroughs recalls a story about his family dog, Grover, being sick and his alcoholic, abusive father refusing to take the animal to the vet. His mother, Margaret Robison, portrayed in the book as mentally unstable, told the Times, "That's not true" and said she had taken the dog to the vet. She is writing her own book. Burroughs' brother has also written his own memoir.

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Excerpts from the blockbuster memoir, "A Dog at the Table" by Grover:

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I repeatedly told them I had to go out in the yard. Repeatedly. OK, well, I didn't so much tell them as run around the house barking. They should have known what I meant. I mean, I'm a dog and I could figure it out. They just stood there, asking, "What is it, boy?" What did you think it was? I mean, for God's sake, there was nobody named Timmy for miles and we didn't even have a well. Morons.

And their reaction after the fact! How was I supposed to know what would happen if I peed on the TV? I have a brain the size of a tangerine. I will say that it sure made some noise. And the sparks! I must admit it was pretty cool, except for the electric shock.

"Dad" was drunk again, and when he

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tried to kick me, he plunged his foot into the picture tube. I thought I'd never stop wagging my tail.

Also on the plus side, "Mom" was able to take off the Reynold's Wrap hat that protected her brain from the voices from the TV and little Augusten snagged a three-book deal from Random House based on that story.

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I wasn't their first dog. They had another one before I arrived on the scene. His name was Fido. Fortunately for me, they had evolved in the area of dog-naming since then. Fido. Please.

They never said much about Fido, only that he had been their dog for a number of years before going off to live on a farm in the country where he could chase cows and frolic with sheep and live the charmed life of a farm dog.

For years, I harbored the fantasy of living on the farm with Fido, chasing rabbits, messing with the cows, peeing where I please. It seemed like a great life, much better than living in this cramped house with the electric fence.

The electric fence. Can you believe it? They called it an invisible fence, but whenever I went close to the edge of the yard, it felt just like that time I peed on the TV.

I used to fantasize that they had no invisible, electric fences in the farm, just acres and acres of open pastures and fields where a dog could run and enjoy himself.

I remember talking about the farm with the Springerspaniel down the street, Oscar. He said the story about Fido going to the farm was a cover, that they really took him to the vet and he never came back.

I asked Oscar, "What do you mean, he never came back?"

He said, "They had him put to sleep."

And I said, "That doesn't sound so bad. I go to sleep all the time."

And he said, "No, I mean they had him put down."

And I asked, "Put down? Like they insulted him? Did they call him a bad dog?"

Oscar rolled his eyes and said, "Fido's dead."

It hit me like a ton of kibble. Fido's dead?

Well, at least he got to have a good time on the farm before he passed away.

Itold them I was sick. Sort of.

They kept asking, "What is it, Grover?"

They had no idea. They kept dragging me to the door and putting me out in the yard. I think they were still mad about the whole TV incident.

I barked and barked, but I couldn't bark the words "bowel obstruction." How does one communicate "bowel obstruction" without the ability to speak or an opposable thumb? How do mimes tell people they have a bowel obstruction?

I told Oscar about it, and he said I'd be going to the farm soon. Oh boy, I thought, I'd love it on the farm.

One day, I was lying on the floor, minding my own business, licking myself, and they all gathered around me. I remember thinking that this is it, I'm going to the farm. I tried to wag my tail. But I was too tired.

Next thing I knew, I was going to the vet's office. I had been there before. I remembered the last time. I came home from that visit with some of my parts missing. Seriously, I'd rather go to the farm.

But it wasn't so bad, I guess. I don't remember much of it. When I got home, I had to wear this lampshade thing on my head and Oscar and I had a pretty good laugh about it.

I hear that's not how he remembers it. He said I cried like a female dog.

His agent told me he's writing his own memoir to set the record straight.

Mike Argento's column appears Mondays and Fridays in Living and Sundays in Viewpoints. Reach him at mike@ydr.com or 771-2046. Read more Argento columns at www.inyork.com/ydr - click on the opinion section - or visit his blog at www.mikeargento.com.