“Like it, eh? Looks great on you.”

Yes yes yes. Thank you.

“D’you like it? Huh?”

Yes yes yes. Thank you.

“Solid gold-plate. Wasn’t cheap. Don’t have anything like this, do you, sweetheart?”

Noooo. That is correct.

“In fact, you don’t have much of anything, do you, Vi’let? I mean—nice things. Like this.”

Noooo. Correct.

Leaning over to kiss him. In fact feeling grateful. In fact a surge of something like yearning.

But he grabs my head, presses his mouth against my mouth, hard as he’d never done before.

Tongue poking into my mouth, jabbing like an angry man shouting.

“Y’know, Vi’let—you are the skinniest girl I ever fucked since—high school.” Laughing so his jowls quiver, drunk-glistening eyes fixed on mine to see how I am taking this frank revelation.

Seeing the faint hurt smile on my face, as if relenting: “Hell, all my girlfriends were skinny, then.”

NO LONGER DO I HOUSE CLEAN FOR ORLANDO METTI. NOW THAT I’ve been promoted from servant to girlfriend.

Yet: “The damned little dog has made a mess again. D’you think you could clean it up? Please? Makes me feel like puking just to smell it.”

And: “Damned little dog is all excited you’re here, listen to it! OK if you take it out for a walk?—please.”

And: “Damned little dog needs to see the vet, it’s been wheezing and sneezing. Running nose, eyes. D’you have time to take it, Vi’let? Please.”

This is a surprise. Well, not much of a surprise. Not possible for me to say no.

Metti explains that he has been paying the son of the building superintendent to take Brindle out at least once a day. But the boy isn’t dependable—“Not like you, Vi’let.”

In a rush the little French bulldog comes yipping, whining, wheezing, sneezing against my legs. Shuddering with love, need. Trying to climb up into my lap though I am not sitting but standing. Lapping his soft moist tongue against my hands. Dribbling urine onto my shoe. (Fortunately glaring Master doesn’t notice.)

Poor little Brindle! Desperate to be loved, saved. His toenails click against the hardwood floor, so eager is he to avoid Master.

It is true that the little bulldog has been wheezing, sneezing, snuffling, struggling to breathe recently. Each time I’ve seen him he has been sounding worse. Both his big dark shiny wide-set eyes are runny and one of them, the left, is obscured with mucus, which I have tried to wipe away.

Still not convinced that Metti is serious about my taking his daughter’s dog to the vet’s but yes, Metti is serious. It seems that I have been promoted another time to something like close relative, family member. Sharing household responsibilities, for Metti has an “urgent” business call to make and does not have time—tonight—for the damned little dog.