I was in the backyard in the large loft apartment.

I’d never noticed the terrarium with its curled-up blue puppies—now they awoke and started to bark, and the german shepherds from next door leaped over the fence. I lay down as quickly as I could and made low humming sounds until they nuzzled me, one of them sliding a paw under my chin. When R arrived and they left, a smaller, bristly red dog appeared, next to (it turned out) a sign showing this animal with an entire soccerball in its mouth, its head huge, encephalitically round, with the warning, “Never show it Up or Down.” I tried to stand up horizontally, which somehow worked.

All this only weeks after I nearly “made love” to that giant owl.

I seemed to be the fifties sitcom dad with pipe in mouth, reclining on the bed, saying:

‘ “How did I make all my money?”, they’ll ask—and I’ll tell ‘em, “From laffs! I made it from laffs!” ’

Not sure how I knew it was spelled that way.