Issue 47, Summer 1969
The apartment has been burglarized again. They have taken a record player, a typewriter, a portable radio and other things besides. When I ask the detective if he would recommend a watchdog, he replied, “No, they will only steal the dog as well.” And of course, he was right. They did. They took the faithful blue terrier that I had been meaning to purchase for ever so long in spite of the price and for which I could never get up the money until it had vanished from the window of the pet shop. Moreover, the detective dispensed his wisdom modestly, and I will admire him for this one day, but in the meantime I have decided to strike out on my own.
I will have to find them, the burglars. I do not want vengeance, nor do I really care who they were. It is not even important they be stopped; it will eventually be clear that stopping them is not possible in this life, though perhaps it used to be in the next. What is of primary interest to me is that I discover once and for all everything they have taken. If I can discover that, then I will be content.