He’s a sweet one, Little Jim, I said, while I waited for the man to shuck from his rubber-banded bill roll.

You’re a sweet one, the man said. He stepped closer with the money. Then, instead of handing it to me, he grabbed my hair and twisted it. His other hand darted around my body, into its pockets, like he was searching for some small item I’d hidden. But then he let go and stepped back. He breathed heavily and wiped his mouth. He picked up the pup from where it sat. He got into his truck and drove away with Little Jim lying like a potato in the trough of his lap.

A few years later, I heard about how this same man tied his leg to a concrete block and walked into the river. A fisherman motored over to where the man had slipped under, and with hooks and nets hauled him out of the water and onto the deck of the boat, but the man resisted. Violence became necessary, said the fisherman. To save the man, he beat him on the head.

The rescued man was taken to a place for cases like his and never heard from again. Out-of-town relations arrived to disperse his holdings. They affixed a price tag to every item in his house, then opened the doors on a Saturday morning. The proceeds would pay, in perpetuity, the people who now protected the man from his unnatural intentions.

Winona Goldstone parked her truck out front to sell loose beef sandwiches and pie slices. As usual, she cut her coffee with decaf, so you had to buy two for the jolt of one. Everyone was there—Mort, Pinkie, Gigi, Hep, Jeff, Hal, Winterbottom, and Arliss—even Bob Snatchko showed up.

At one end of the house was a large room set up like an artist’s studio. There was an easel with an unfinished canvas propped up on it and a little table strewn with bottles and tubes of paint and thinner. The walls were densely hung. I paused to inspect some awkward landscapes done in sulky blues and grays.

Then, in a corner on a stool, I saw it—the head of the rescued man himself. It was made of rough pink clay that looked raw, porous—like anything dripped or poured on it would be sucked deep into the man’s head. His lips curled in bitter, enduring disappointment.

Bob Snatchko held a painting of yellow flowers in dirty snow. Looks like we had a genius on our hands, he said. What a tragedy! Are these things worth more now that he’s a confirmed nut job?

Some pie on your chin, Bob, I said.

When I got to the kitchen, there he was—Little Jim! The dog—with the distinctive white star of fur on his brisket—stood as still and regal as the dog statues you see in the yards of people who put on airs.

A woman stepped out of the pantry holding a can of chunky noodle soup. That is the most well-trained animal on the planet, she said. Try him if you don’t believe me. Shake! she shouted.