Ali And His Entourage

Behind us, the dogs began to snarl and thump again. "Shhhhh," Sarria pleaded. "Shhhhh."

"Sarria," I said, "how did you get so many dogs?"

From his pocket he pulled three photographs. Two of them were yellowed ones of him and AH, clipped from newspapers. The other was a color glossy of a little girl. Tears misted his eyes, then his wife's. And the two of them took turns explaining the story of the 25 dogs.

Fourteen years ago they had taken in the three-day-old daughter of a relative who was unable to raise her. For 11 years she gave them someone to hug and care for, to take to ballet lessons and help with homework, to fill the hole left when Ali departed their lives. And then, just like that, the relative reappeared and took her away. "Oh, how Sarria cried," said his wife. She turned away and clamped her lips.

"Just before she left us," she went on, "the girl brought home a stray dog. We named it Alfi, and then she brought home a second one—we named it Kelly. When she left, we couldn't give away her dogs, you see. And then they started to make babies...."

THE BODYGUARD

Clanking and Jangling with walkie-talkie, nightstick, pistol and keys, Officer Howard (Pat) Patterson swung his 220-pound body out of patrol car No. 511 on the far south side of Chicago, and the shouting match began.

"Officer, this mother's in my face."

"You reported a battery? What's your name, ma'am?" Patterson asked calmly.

"Miss Jones. I went to jail for this mother——, and now...."