Then, footsteps descending the stairs. Inside I was cowering. Inside I was calculating how I might escape through a window, breaking the window with a chair, a badly rusted fire escape outside the window, possibly it would hold my weight. And there was a pair of scissors, gripped in my hand. But then suddenly, Metti was retreating. From the window I saw the man make his unsteady way to the Jaguar parked crooked at the curb, where it had attracted some attention from several guys, admiring its sleek dark missile-shape. I wondered if Metti would pause to look back at me, if he would wave. If I would wave at him.

And now, I thought—No more.

YET STILL, THERE WOULD BE MORE. IT DID NOT (YET) END. FOR A few days later when I returned to the house on Cayuga Street it was to discover, on the small front porch, barking and whimpering as I approached—Brindle! The little French bulldog secured by a short leash to a porch railing, a flimsy red scarf about his neck, badly twisted so he’d nearly throttled himself.

“Brindle! My God.”

Astonishing—Brindle was alive, and Brindle was here.

Afterward I would wonder if Metti had been boarding him at a kennel, after our disagreement. He’d wanted me to think the worst, as a way of punishing me.

I would wonder if Metti had changed his mind about having the bulldog put down or whether in fact no veterinarian would consent to do such a thing. Whether Metti’s daughter had told him definitively that she didn’t care to take the dog back.

Brindle was overcome with joy to see me. His deep-chested dwarfish body quivered, shook from side to side with the agitation of his skinny tail. His left eye was cloudy but luminous. He was panting, slathering spittle on my hands.

“Oh, Brindle. What the hell am I going to do with you . . . .”

Whether in derision, or for some other motive, Metti had tied the red silk scarf around Brindle’s neck, over his collar. In his agitation the dog had torn the delicate material with his claws and soiled it.

I wondered if Metti was somewhere close by, observing. I did not want to look for him—the Jaguar parked on the street. No. I carried Brindle up the stairs, to my room. And here too, a surprise—an envelope stuffed with cash, pushed beneath the door.

Ten one-hundred-dollar bills. One thousand dollars!

No note, not a word. Just the dog, the scarf, the envelope filled with cash. Somehow this did not (yet) feel like an end.