THE HUNDRED-AND-SIXTEENTH PAGE

It could be only rank coincidence that three hundred and sixty days from the day of my final assault on My Editor, the apparent retaliatory action was launched against me. That could happen in fiction, but not in life. That is the joy of fiction: the inescapable measure of control.

The solstice fell on a weekday, so the first task of the day was the post office visit. The dog and I drove down our mountain, picked up the book bundles, tossed them into the rear of the car, and completed our other errands about town.

When we got home, I paid no heed to the packages as I attended to the bills and junk mail, which I find as entertaining as most magazines and newspapers--cheaper, too, and better written.

It was only when the dog and I set out for a ream of paper from The Mall’s Office Depot that I sensed something was peculiar. The dog was behaving uncharacteristically. Usually, the motion of the car put him to sleep in less than a mile. Of course, a walk around a room could also make him sleepy. I, too, share that characteristic of sleep in motion, which, of course, makes me one hell of a dangerous driver. I could not have slept on that trip because for the first time I heard the dog bark: a hearty Verdian baritone that could have put to shame Milnes or Fischer-Dieskau or Domingo.