Smithers: I, ah, I hate to interrupt your longevity treatment, sir, but there's a sweet little boy at the door.
Mr. Burns: [muffled, from behind the glass] Release the hounds.
Homer: Well, he's got all the money in the world, but there's one thing he can't buy.
Marge: What's that?
Homer: A dinosaur.
Chief Wiggum: [watching lottery drawing, phone rings] Ah, no you got the wrong number, this is 912.
[after Santa's Little Helper disappears]
Homer: That was his dish, and that was his leash, and that's where he took a whiz on the rug!
Marge: Homer, get a-hold of yourself! Even if he has passed on there's no reason to cry. Remember, Doggy Heaven.
Homer: Oh, Marge! There is no such place!
[Marge clears throat]
Homer: Or to put it another way... there... is.
[Santa's Little Helper is missing - Lisa wants to make a poster]
Lisa: Don't we have any pictures of Santa's Little Helper?
Marge: None that I would want the public to see.
Bart: We're just gonna let him die?
Marge: I know you're upset...
Bart: Darn right I'm upset!
Marge: Bart, watch your language! Oh... you did.
Smithers: People like dogs, Mr. Burns.
Mr. Burns: Nonsense! Dogs are idiots. Think about it, Smithers. If I came into your house and started sniffing at your crotch and slobbering all over your face, what would you say?
Smithers: Um, if you did it, sir?
[Mr. Burns sees one of his hounds limping and wheezing]
Mr. Burns: What's wrong with Crippler?
Smithers: Oh, he's getting on, sir. He's been here since the late-'60s.
Mr. Burns: Ah, yes. I'll never forget the day he bagged his first hippie. That young man didn't think it was too "groovy".
Mr. Burns: Now, as an attack dog you'll be expected to neutralize intruders.
Smithers: Wanna buy some cookies? Wanna buy some cookies?
[Santa's Little Helper starts licking Smithers' face]
Mr. Burns: Oh, if that were a real Girl Scout, I'd have been bothered by now.
Ned Flanders: So, recycling is our way of giving Mother Earth a great big hug!
Mr. Burns: Yes, well, it does sound like fun. I can't wait to start pawing through my garbage like some starving raccoon!
Mr. Burns: Release the hounds.
Mr. Burns: Well, neighbor, I see you've got your running shoes on. That's a good thing.
Ned Flanders: Aaahhhh!
[he sees the hounds coming and runs away]
[Homer is reading a book called "Canine Surgery."]
Marge: You are not going to perform that operation yourself!
Homer: But, Marge, it looks so easy! Like carving a turkey...
[flashes back to last Thanksgiving, him wielding the electric carver]
Homer: ... Maybe you're right.
Grampa: [Santa's Little Helper is lying on the floor in the kitchen] The dog's dead.