Dear Sir or Madam,

I have forever been an admirer of animals, though, alas, never an owner of one. It is a curious sort of fascination. I myself forfeited the right to defecate wherever I fancied at a very young age, so I suppose this is why I regard those proud, naked beasts of so-called domestication that I encounter with reverence and a sort of envy.

I was at a party recently. Of course, I’m always at a party recently. The occasion was a response to the wake of Sir Edward Johnson George, for those who were glad he was dead. I happened to be indifferent to the demise of Sir Eddy-John, but I also happened to be courting one of his ex-wives. Her name escapes me at the moment, but she has honey-blonde hair and a honey-sweet arse to match, which at the time was nestled snugly within the brilliant white gown she’d worn to the affair. However, as she made her grand entrance, my ogling oculars were immediately indisposed.

What had seized my attention, and in fact completely obliterated all thoughts of my caprice with the woman, was the animal which she had in her accompaniment: a dwarf arctic wolf, reigned in with an ivory handled leash. Panting desperately in the summer humidity, its undulating mouth echoing the guffaws of its owner. An absolutely beautiful animal it was, obviously bored to icy tears by the carouse, humanity, everything.

Having spotted what was clearly the most interesting creature in the room, I lowered myself to all fours — the knees of my ivory suit be damned — in order to address it on its level. The beast turned its gaze from its apathetic rival, a baby albino Komodo dragon brought by Graham Jannsen the attorney, and offered me a welcoming sniff. “Hallo, Wolf,” I said.
“Hallo, Gentleman,” the wolf responded genially.
“Would you mind terribly if I were to give you just a good-natured pat on the head?” I boldly asked.
“Why of course not!” laughed the wolf, bowing, “Go right ahead.”

And as I extended my gloved hand, in a fraction of an instant, I found that it had been gnawed asunder by the animal. Retracting my butchered appendage with a cry of surprise and delight, I exclaimed, “Whatever did you do that for?”
“Because I am a wolf,” replied the wolf simply.

It was then that I drew my revolver and decorated the parlor with my offender’s inner strata, adding, “Well, I am The Gentleman.” This act was not particularly well received by the other guests, considering we were all wearing white, but I was later applauded for swapping Sir Gordon’s corpse with that of the wolf, which was buried in his place. I have forever been an admirer of animals, yes, but perhaps it is for the best that I have never been an owner of one. It is of my opinion that the startling presence of a stuffed and mounted Eddy-John is all the companionship one needs.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site