“Okay. I mean, okay about flying to Providence. Eigen, ready to get back to your classes?”

Sill sipped his rum. “Eigen will be remaining here.”

“Eigen?” I tried to find her in her eyes. “Trigo would really like your company on the plane.” I could almost hear her saying fat face but she didn’t.

Instead, she stared at me for several seconds, then leaned back to let the sun strike her face.

2

Gloria drove me to the airport in a red ’57 Ferrari 335 Spider. She took the curves with such mechanical, crackerjack adroitness that I felt no fear regarding our speed. We perhaps could have gone faster, but that would have required a different vehicle, as she had the Spider pushed to its limit. She didn’t talk at all. I chalked this up to the fact that we would not have been able to hear each other over the roar of the twelve cylinders and the wind. Trigo seemed to enjoy the ride with his cheeks full of Miami freeway air.

When we had skidded to a stop, on the tarmac well inside the airport, at the door of the plane, Gloria finally looked at me and said, “Once on board, I will be in the cockpit, you will be in the cabin.”

That sounded like a reasonable arrangement to me and in keeping with our paucity of conversation, I nodded. She followed me up and closed the door. And true to her word, she locked herself in the cockpit and left me with Trigo in the plushly appointed and well-stocked cabin. I buckled us in and in no time I was fast asleep.

Dream. Trigo had six legs and looked rather frightening. He moved around our kitchen at home like an insect, enjoying himself, looking at one paw and then another, but ignoring his left front.

“Where did you get all those?” I asked.

“The leg store,” he said. “They were having a special.”

“Why did you buy so many?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean isn’t four the standard number for a dog?”

“What do you mean standard number?” he asked.

“Dogs have four legs.”

“I’m a dog and I had one leg. Are you saying I was supposed to have four?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I bought as many as would fit. They work nicely, I think. How do I look?” He pirouetted.

I couldn’t help myself. “You’re my best friend, so I have to tell you the truth. You look like an insect.”

“Is that a bad thing?” he asked.

“Not if you’re a beetle, but you’re a dog.”

“What are you saying?”

“Four is all you need.”

“Actually three is all I need. I could learn to stand on two. Why isn’t two all I need?”

“Most dogs have four.”

“Most humans don’t understand Euler’s formula, but you do. So what are you saying? I think my legs look nice.”

“I agree. So, what are you planning to do now that you’ve got them? And so many, I might add.”