Our newest doorman, Kevin, let me into the lobby, where I stopped long enough to pick up my mail and punch the Up button on the elevator. When the elevator door opened, there was a dog inside—a dog and no one else. And not just one of those little, yappy waste-of-fur dogs, either. This was a big dog—tall, blond, and pointy-nosed. An Afghan maybe. Or perhaps a Russian wolfhound. Whatever kind of dog it was, standing on all fours, its nose came right to the bottom of my tie. Fortunately, the tail was wagging. “There’s a dog in here!” “That’s just Charley,” Kevin said, as though explaining the obvious. “Lives on nineteen. Haven’t you two met before?” “Never. What’s he doing in the elevator?” “Just riding around. Must get bored in the evenings sometimes, locked up in an apartment all day. Gail—the owner—lets Charley spend half an hour or so just before bedtime, riding up and down in the elevator and meeting people.” “He rides up and down all by himself?”
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