Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me during the day, trying to get me to perform. I’d be asleep and I’d awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I’d have to do it. The poor dear was mad.

Then I came in one morning and she said, “Hank, don’t be mad.”

I was too tired to be mad.

“What izzit, baby?”

“I got us a dog. A little pup dog.”

“O.K. That’s nice. There’s nothing wrong with dogs. Where is he?”

“He’s in the kitchen. I named him ‘Picasso.’ ”

I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn’t see. Hair cov– ered his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso!

“Baby, you know what you’ve gone and done?”

“You don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him. But he’s a subnormal. He has an I.Q. of about 12.
You’ve gone out and gotten us an idiot of a dog.",

“How can you tell?”

“I can tell just by looking at him.”

Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then Picasso finished, ran and looked at it.
I picked him up.

“Mop it up.”

So Picasso was just one more problem.

I’d awaken after a 12 hour night with Joyce strumming me under the geraniums and I’d say, “Where’s Picasso?”

“Oh god damn Picasso!” she’d say.

I’d get out of bed, naked, with this big thing in front of me.

“Look, you’ve left him out in the yard again! I told you not to leave him out in the yard in the daytime!”

Then I’d go out into the backyard, naked, too tired to dress. It was fairly well sheltered. And there would be poor Picasso, over-run with 500 flies, flies crawling all over him in circles. I’d run out with the thing (going down then) and curse those flies. They were in his eyes, under the hair, in his ears, on his privates, in his mouth . . . everywhere. And he’d just sit there and smile at me. Laugh at me, while the flies ate him up. Maybe he knew more than any of us. I’d pick him up and carry him into the house.

“The little dog laughed To see such sport; And the dish ran away with the spoon.”

“God damn it, Joyce! I’ve told you and told you and told you.”

“Well, you were the one who housebroke him. He’s got to go out there to crap!”

“Yes, but when he’s through, bring him in. He doesn’t have sense enough to come in himself. And wash away the crap when he’s finished. You’re creating a fly-paradise out there.”

Then as soon as I fell asleep, Joyce would begin stroking me again. That couple of million was a long time coming.