Several years ago, when I lived in the North End of Boston, I stepped outside the front door of my brick apartment building to see a tiny, fluffy dog in the middle of the narrow street. I think he was a Pomeranian--an exuberant fluff of pale fur, and a pointed, foxy face. It had been raining, and the dog's belly was sopping wet with mud. He stood looking at me, panting, wearing a big dog smile. I called him, and took a step toward him, to see if he was wearing a collar. He took a few steps, then stopped to look back at me, mouth wide open, enjoying the game. This happened a few times, then he ran joyfully off up the street. He was obviously well cared for, and his coat was beautiful, aside from the mud. Clearly, he wasn't supposed to be out, which enhanced the experience of running through puddles. I remember thinking, "That dog is really enjoying his freedom."

I only bring it up because that dog came to mind when the Keelhauler came back yesterday.

He was sorry, of course, and we had a brief discussion, which culminated with me saying that I don't care if he goes out with friends, but please don't blow me off to do so.

I think sometimes, he just has to slip the leash, even if the leash is only in his imagination.

Star of the day. . .Gil Evans