"Oh, he was thoroughly pocket-broken before I acquired him. But he did like his little jokes, and I learned to leave him curled up in a circular ashtray until maturity sobered him."
"Well, I should say! You drew sketches with him, didn't you tell me?"
He nodded. "At first he only had one color of ink—red—and if I sketched with him all day he would commence to look wretchedly anemic. He took two days to refill, normally. But I could use him again in only one day's time provided I didn't mind the top three-fourths of my pen laying on my arm."
"I hope his weight didn't get tiresome," she commiserated, holding in her amusement.
"I coped somehow," he answered sturdily. "Later he learned—after I squeezed him on the liver a few times just to show him how—to switch to a lovely shade of ochre, which was delightful on pale green or pink paper. Why, what's the matter, Judy?"
"Go on," she choked. "Go go go!"
He beamed. "I write my letters with him too. Every day I wrote with him, first in red, and then in ochre to give him a rest. He seemed to love to write more than to sketch. He would jump into my hand with tail happily pointed downward as I sat down to my writing desk. And when I later saw his dark green stripes turning pastel and knew that anemia was imminent, and started to lay him down for a earned rest, he would stiffen himself as if to say, 'Oh, come, come! I'm good for half a page yet!'"
"It sounds as though he was a willing worker, but I still can't see why his malfunction makes our marriage impossible."
"I haven't gotten to his career as a novelist yet. There lies the heart of the tragedy."