"Because you didn't,
you cost me my job."

* * * * *

He waved a forepaw deprecatingly. "You didn't want to stay on that
hick sheet anyway."

"It was a job."

"Now you've got a better one."

"Who's kidding whom?"

"Together we'll write real literature."

"I don't know anything about literature. My job is writing the news."

"You'll be famous. With my help, of course."

"Not with that 'dimly drouse' stuff."

"Oh, that!"

"Where did you come from, Fuzzy?"

"Do I ask you where you come from?"

"Well, no--"

"And my name's not Fuzzy. It's Trlk, pronounced Turlick and spelled
T-r-l-k."

"My name's Larry Weaver, pronounced Lar-ree--"

"I know. Look, you got a typewriter?"

"A portable. At the apartment."

"That will do."

"Aren't you taking things for granted? I haven't said yet whether I
liked the idea."

"Do you have any choice?"

I looked at him, a couple of ounces of harmless-looking fur that had
already cost me my immediate future in the newspaper business.

"I guess not," I said, hoping I could find a way to get rid of him if
things didn't work out right.

And so began a strange collaboration, with Trlk perched on my shoulder
dictating stories into my ear while I typed them. He had definite
ideas about writing and I let him have his way. After all, I didn't
know anything about literature.

Sometimes, when he'd get stuck, he'd get down and pace the living room
rug. Other times he'd massage his tail, which was as long as he,
smoothing it with his tongue and meticulously arranging every hair on
it.

"It's lovely, don't you think?" he often asked.

And I'd say, "If you spent as much time working on this story as you
do admiring your tail, we'd get something done."

[Illustration: ]

"Sorry," he'd say, hopping on my shoulder again. "Where were we?"

I'd read the last page and we'd be off again.

* * * * *

One day, Trlk crawled on a shelf to watch me shave, whiffed the
shaving lotion bottle, became excited and demanded I put a drop of it
in front of him. He lapped it up, sank blissfully back on his tail and
sighed.

"Wonnerful," he squeaked. "Shimply wonnerful." He hiccupped.

I let him sleep it off, but was always careful with the lotion after
that.

Days stretched into weeks, my money was running low and the apartment
superintendent was pressing me for payment of the month's rent. I kept
telling him I'd pay as so