Failure has gone to your head.

First, Liz finished off the last of the ice cream. She then said goodbye to the doomed dog, put him in the empty ice cream container, and put it back in the freezer. I didn’t ask whether the puppy way supposed to freeze to death or suffocate.

“Sounds like a peaceful way to go,” I said.

“That’s what I thought too,” Liz replied, “except that I kept hearing him yelping.”

“How could you hear a one-day old puppy in sealed container in a freezer?” I asked.

“If you ever read Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart you’d know how,” she explained.

“Anyway, it gets worse,” Liz continued. “My son found the puppy in the freezer when he came home, and screamed at me and demanded to know how I could do such a thing.”

“I can see why he would have been upset,” I agreed. “It must have been disturbing.”

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Liz corrected, “he hates dogs. He was furious because I ate all of the ice cream.”

“Are you sure?” she replied.

“Of course,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

“There are both positive and negative muses,” Leigh explained, “and the latter can drive an artist to indulge in self-destructive behavior.”

“Sounds like I can’t lose,” I concluded, “at least then I wouldn’t have to walk.”

I couldn’t fully appreciate his craft until I rode twenty-five kilometers from his shop and across the Golden Gate Bridge back to my laboratory. It was only then that I realized the “replacement” bike was, in fact, vastly superior in every way to my stolen bike. I am very happy to be two-wheeled mobile again.

In fact, I wish I could meet the guy who stole my bike and shake his hand; my new bicycle is really that much better. And, lest I give the mistaken impression that I forgive despicable, bike-stealing vermin, after thanking him I’d cut off all of his fingers with rusty pruning shears to ensure his retirement from a life of larceny.

I wrote back to confirm that I’d be there, then added a postscript, “As for the baited breath, you may want to brush your teeth.”

Juanita called me a few minutes later to say how embarrassed she was about her misspelling. She then apologized for apologizing; she said she was a bit defensive because English isn’t her first language.

When I told her that I had no idea what she was talking about, she replied that she’d misspelled “bated.”

I told her to relax; “bated” is one of those words no one ever needs to spell correctly. But I would say that, wouldn’t I?

“Really,” I said, “that sounds too horrible to be true, especially since you’re so wonderful.”

“Well,” she said, “I was in love with a guy a few years ago, but he didn’t love me. Does that count?”

We discussed the semantic and philosophical implications, and, eventually, we concluded that friends don’t keep score.