Little pooch scurries through the crowded streets, as fast as his legs can scurry. Which isn’t very fast.

“Little pooch, little pooch!” I cry as I slyly stride beside him. “Wouldn’t you like a bike?”

And little pooch ceases his scuttle, and I stall my stride, and he looks up at me and I down at him, and he says: “yes”.

So we trot to the bicycle shop, the little pooch and I, and there the moustachio’d monsieur and the mellifluous madame sing their songs of this wheel and that wheel and wouldn’t-you-like-a-lovely-red-one, and little pooch’s eyes glow wide, with all these shiny things to ride.

Then from the corner of the room, he hears a vroom, a zoom. It’s coming from the street. He draws me near and in my ear he whispers, softly:  “that one”

No more scurrying for little pooch, he’s a Hell’s Angel now.