23I dragged myself home, feeling like Max Schmeling must have felt when Joe Louis beat the living tar out of him during their rematch. I hadn't felt this bad since my wife, some years back, had said that her brother was out of work and would stay with us for a few weeks. (The lazy bastard stayed eight months. I was sorely tempted to put it to my wife that either he left or I would. In retrospect, I would have come out way ahead if I had.) Poor Dotty. My mind raced with thoughts of what the Llama and John Dough were doing to her right now—taunting her, molesting her, depriving her of her novels. I had to save her. Sure. But how? I don't believe in miracles, especially after having had my 30-to-1 longshot nag miss winning a big one by a nose at Aqueduct. And sitting on my slightly overweight
