Joe looked at it carefully for quite a minute.
"Yes," she remarked, "I think there is a tiny spot under the left ear. You've been drilling too much. You've been dressing too much to the left."
"No! No!" I shouted, tugging at the collar, "can't you see how swollen it is? It's that complaint you get from drinking chalky water. It's all your fault! I've told you hundreds of times to put a marble in the kettle."
Joe unfastened the collar, looked at it and laughed.
I snatched it back.
Inside there was a brief summary: "Alonzo. Fourfold. 14½."
I take 16.
"That," said Joe, pointing to Alonzo, "must be the extra collar they sent from the laundry last week."
It was. Alonzo was a gift—a donation. Sleek, youthful and unsullied, he came to us, bringing an air of tragedy into the home.
Three times during that week I tried to soil his glossy coat, and each time a golden minute was shorn from my breakfast. After that I put him in the sock drawer.