A man says, Are you the individual who yesterday called me at this number?

I say, I am indeed that selfsame person who called you at this number.

He says, How is it that it so happens that you know to reach me at this secret number?

I say, Sir, it may very well be that you should not regard this number as secret inasmuch as yesterday I spoke to you at this number.

He says, What was it that a man of your disposition was requiring at this number?

I say, Sir, here you have me, because yesterday I called a solid dozens of numbers.

He says, Did your calling perhaps involve a certain dog of the canine variety?

I say, Sir, to my running knowledge, such is a distinct possibility.

He says, A person of your disposition should be aware the party at this number you yesterday called is willing to shell out good greenbacks for the return of a certain dog named Amar.

Amar, I say. Then this would be a she-dog?

Definitely a she-dog, says he. Standing about so high, a long-haired true-breed of unreluctant face and warmest fainship, frolicsome by nature, but giving no difficulty even to the most decrepit among us.

I say, Sir, when you speak of good greenbacks for the return of this canine, of what skyey heights are we proclaiming?

He says, Skyey, Sir, how is this world spelled?

I say, After the old English.

He says, Sir, the figure of which we are speaking is not one I can broach over a public wire but one which can be negotiated in deep evening at a location to be by mutual consent arranged.

I say, Sir, a ballpark figure occupying this heightened region might be very well appreciated by those ensconced in a realm knowledgeable as to the issue under discussion.

He says, Sir, I have stated my party’s terms.

I say, Then, sir, you have bested me and I might next suggest that my party will consider a convention of two parties in or around midnight this evening at the well-known corner of Yonge and Bloor.

He says, Tonight?

I respond in the affirmative.

He says, I have heard of this famous corner. And how shall I recognize this party?

I say, The party to which I allude will be very aptly found driving a white van of unremarkable character, on her head–

He says, I do not deal with women.

I continue. I say, On this woman’s head the baseball cap of a certain team of the boys of summer, and beside her on the front seat a toasty canine which I have assurances is in the best of health and suffering no disquiet.

He says, Thank you, Sir, you are a gentleman of the first orchard.

I say, Thank you, Sir, and, Sir, it goes without saying that your party must come alone, unarmed, and be conveying the greenbacks of which we speak in a nondescript valise, which said valise will be deposited in the side window of a second white van to be found passing this same vouchsafed corner at precisely twelve a.m.

He says, My good man, I understand perfectly, although I note this does not quit the exchange quite to my satisfaction.

I say, The beast, sir?

He says, Ah, yes, the beast, precisely and exactly.

I say, Sir, if my information be true the beast to which we allude shall be found tied by silken ribblet to the lantern standard precisely eight city blocks north of the corner aforesaid mentioned.

He says, And that shall be the end of it?

I say, Indeed, Sir, and all shall be happy.

He says, Very good, Sir, and in the next second dashed if he has not hung up the phone.

Whereupon, after some little doodle of deep thinking, I do the same to my end, and next turn to my true love, the fabulous Aiyi Aiya, who repines on our sofa, elegantly diaphanous in a sheer blue cotton frock, silent as an apparition pressed between windowpanes, her flesh the very colour of Arabian sands and her almond eyes unblinking, surrounded on all sides by our many snoring dogs, her legs deftly crossed and dangling from her lovely feet the single-strap pongo bango shoes which earlier in the day were my birthday present to this very selfsame most agreeable lady.

I say to this fascination, Now that transpired most winningly, in my opinion, did you not think?

To which she stirs not a fathom.

Next, I say to this goddess, We must this afternoon see to it that our Amar has a good wash, that she is brushed and scented, and in the bargain see to it that our midnight black ransom attire is returned from Knob Hill Cleaners and our vehicles waiting. I regard it as a matter of principle that you wear your new birthday jewels.

My lady floats down a lithesome arm gently as a piece of tender air, the fingers gracefully attach themselves to the crystal goblet into which I am manfully decanting a dram or two of finest champagne. She reposes, dare I say so, as one enthroned upon a stage lit by the brightness of chandeliers the radiance of which was formerly known only to heaven. For the next extended seconds I observe my companion’s refined consumption of this fabled liquid.

The dog Amar’s ears waggle in her sleep. She has proved a good, gentle dog while in our keeping, and good at her English, though the gold teeth and the golden nails hammered into her four paws some of our stripe find more than a trifle disconcerting.

Finally, my good fortune speaks:

I got a bad feeling about this one, Mugsy, she says.

I say, You do?

My beauty breathes as does a divine diva singing the high notes of an immortal aria.

She says, Yeah, honey, I got a gut intuition this caper might land us in the soup.

Ah.

We look again at the dog.

We look a long time at the dog, until finally my queen says, You know, Mugsy, I kinda like old Amar. I say we keep her.