"Hi, Charley. How you doing?" Figan greeted him gratefully.

Charley opened the cage, but instead of snapping on the leash, he took Figan's hand gently and walked him over to the desk. "Not sshho good," Charley sighed. "They canned ole Charley. Give me my notice, they did. That means I can't work here anymore, Figan." Charley took out a nearly empty bottle and gulped down the rest of it. Then he flicked on the TV and lit a cigarette.

"What you going to do, Charley?" asked Figan with concern.

"Darned if I know," replied Charley sadly. "But I'm sure gonna miss you. You've been a good pal to me, Figan." Charley groped for words." Sometimes ole Charley thinks you're jest in his mind, Figan." Charley's head slowly drooped onto the desk and his words grew muffled. "Jest somethin'... he... made..."

Charley began to snore loudly, rivaling the guns of the war thundering from the TV set. Figan could not believe this luck. His great escape was going to be easy. He wouldn't even have to worry about untying his leash.