The Dog was already at the top. It was eating off a room service tray someone had left outside a neighboring door. "Hey, Jimmy, you want the rest of this omelet?" it asked. "Eggs give me worms."

Jimmy hurried into his own room and slammed the door. After the glamor of the casino, the cramped space was incredibly depressing. He went clammy over how hopeless it had been to think that Cleopatra would ever come here with him--he never would if he was her, not when there were so many new-car dealers and building contractors around, flashing pinkie rings and expense accounts. All he had to offer was a cheap room with a fake painting of a windmill. Looking at the windmill, he realized how thin the wall was that separated him from the campers; through it he could hear their televisions and voices: "You left the can-opener at home, Dumbo! How we gonna eat!"

A moment later there was the sound of claws scratching the door.

"Go away!" Jimmy yelled, fighting back an urge to weep.

"Comeon, Jimmy," the Dog called to him, "Jimmyyyy Diii-a-mond!" it laughed, doing a burlesque of Jimmy's stage introduction. "Let me in."

"I'll let you into the pound!"

"Go ahead, the Dog laughed, "I'll just talk my way out."

"I'll gag you so you can't talk," Jimmy yelled at the door, growing furious.

"If you do, I'll never talk at one of your pud auditions."

"Pud auditions!" The insult so infuriated Jimmy that he tried to throw a lamp at the door but the lamp was bolted down. The Most Exciting Address on Earth said the stationary that he swept off the desk. "You don't talk now," he raged, lifting the chair, "you, you--dog!" He heaved it at the Dog's voice.