Turning handsprings, balancing himself precariously on the end of his vibrating tail, running and waving his forepaws to get my attention was Fuzzy. I groaned. "Please go away!" I covered my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at him. "Why?" he piped. "Because you're a hallucination." "I'm not a hallucination," he said indignantly. "I'm real flesh and blood. See?" He vibrated his tail so fast, I could hardly see it. Then it stopped and stood straight out. "Lovely, isn't it?" "Look," I said, leaning far off the bench to speak to him, "I can prove you're a hallucination." "You _can_?" he quavered. "How?" "Because Phipps couldn't see you." "That square? Hah! He would not have believed it if he had seen me." "You mean you--" He disappeared and reappeared like a flashing neon sign. "There!" he said triumphantly. "Why didn't you let him see you then?" I asked, a little angry, but pleased nonetheless with his opinion of Phipps. "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. * * * * *