I’m not taking him out again. I just took him. He can sit by the door as long as he wants, it’s not going to change anything. Does he not understand the involved hassle? He must. He’s been here long enough, doing this same thing. It’s his routine. It’s the routine. It’s all he does. It’s his only job. I don’t see how he couldn’t have figured it out by now. Any dummy, with the least amount of brain cells would understand. He’s better than this. We raised him better. And let me tell you, if he shits by the door, I’m going to be pissed. Bodies are machines. They should follow an orderly regiment. It’s not like we live in a suburban duplex with a spacious backyard. This is New York City we’re talking about. Brooklyn. Every outing is another opportunity to get mugged, stabbed, shot, killed. I told you, I don’t think that’s the best way to go anymore. Let me die an old man, in peace, lying in my bed, with my wife kissing me to sleep. Let me outlive the dog. That’s how nature intends it to be. And if I die out there, he’s as good as gone himself. All the vehicular traffic, not a moment of clear roads for the crossing. Splat and delivered to the pizza place. That’s how it goes around here. All lost dogs end up at the pizza place. That’s what the guy told me. It’s because he feeds them pepperoni. They all burst away from their owners to get another slice. But not Carlo. We raised him better than that. We raised him right.