I folded back the orange rug carefully and tucked it in a corner. It’s Doris’s pride and joy, and has to be handled with care. Then I fiddled with the radio, and when I found some nice slow music, I picked up Buster and we started out. We swooped around as if we were in a ballroom with waiters carrying trays of drinks, and women in diamond earrings and sequined gowns dancing with tall, handsome men wearing black silk suits and shirts with pleated fronts. I don’t know how to dance, as I said; but with Buster, it comes naturally. I lead, of course. He never steps on my feet, either. “You’re some snazzy dancer, kid,” I told him. “Light as a feather, too.” As we twirled around, faster and faster, he gave out little shouts of joy and pleasure. When I began to get dizzy, I stopped twirling, figuring if I was dizzy, he was too, and might barf all over me. Which he’s been known to do. Dancing is good for the figure, I’ve heard. All I know is, it’s strenuous. I collapsed in a chair, breathing hard, holding on to Buster, who didn’t seem winded at all.
